The Art Teacher
by spanglemaker9
Summary: He gave me art and words and passion and life, but all I wanted was him.
1. The Art Teacher

**I'll only post this disclaimer once; it applies for all subsequent chapters:**

**Stephenie Meyer owns any Twilight characters that may appear in this story. No copyright infringement is intended . The remainder is my original work. Please do not post it elsewhere without my express permission.**

*0*0*

I am a lucky girl.

I tell myself this all the time—I remind myself to be grateful for everything I've been given. It would be so easy to be angry; to be sad; to be a mess. I could have nothing, and instead, I have everything. So I'm not allowed to be any of those things, and I remind myself every day that I'm so, so lucky.

I'm standing by my locker, in the hallway of Spencer Academy, and I'm watching the undulating sea of navy wool and black watch tartan sweep past me between classes. There are crisp white Thomas Pink shirts, and artfully loosened rep ties, and gold bullion school crests on breast pockets, and six hundred dollar highlights, and seven thousand dollar nose jobs, and phones so new they aren't even sold in stores yet, and everywhere there is money. Loads of it. All of them— all of _us_— awash in a sea of unfathomable wealth.

Because I'm standing here at my locker, clutching the strap of my shoulder bag and watching like I'm on the outside, but really, I'm kind of one of them, even if I don't feel that way. And I am _so lucky_ to be one of them. I can't ever forget that.

I turn my head and look down the hall, through the bodies, for Rose. She said she'd meet me here to walk with me to Calc, but it's almost the bell and there's no sign of her. Then I see her, all ease and self-satisfaction, as she swings down the hall. Rose has been beautiful and blessed for so long that it's part of her bones, not just something on the outside of her. She's a little bit ignorant about that fact, but it's hard to hold it against her, since she really does have no clue about how fortunate she is. This is the only reality she knows.

I feel lucky that Rose is my friend. I don't have to remind myself to feel that way; I just do. She may be sheltered and oblivious, but she means well. And her friendship smoothed my entry into this world in a way the money never could have. The money made everyone tolerate me; Rose's stamp of approval made them accept me.

As I watch her glide down the hall, her eyes studiously unfocused, the boys around her part and come back together in her wake, their eyes appreciating everything Rose has so carefully offered up for admiration. Royce Harrison brushes past me and saunters slowly towards her. Like Rose, his attention is everywhere and nowhere and pointedly _not_ on Rose. As they draw abreast of each other, his left hand snakes out a matter of inches to connect with her right hand, also unobtrusively extended. Her fingers quickly close around what he's pressed there and the only acknowledgement that either of them makes is a tiny curl of Rose's lips, directed at the crowded hall, not at Royce.

She continues towards me, an easy sway to her hips, and I see her pocket the tiny baggie Royce pressed into her hand. I roll my eyes, because now she's going to want me to come home with her to use it up, and I'm trying to stay away from all that shit.

For the first few years of high school, I just wanted to hang out with friends and blend in. I wanted to belong and have fun, and in our crowd, fun is had with expensive liquor and drugs. So I did my share, too. But it never made me feel any happier. I felt the same, no matter how much I partied, no matter what I bought with all this money. So I quit all that. I'm trying to stay away from all the rich kid indulgences: the blow, the pills, the booze, the reckless spending.

Rose thinks I'm ridiculous. Maybe I am, but I don't know how to have fun that way anymore. I don't know how to have fun any other way, either, so it's been a pretty boring year. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing with all this wealth and privilege. No one else seems to be working so hard to find answers— just me, which makes me think that maybe I'm missing something.

"Hey," she says, coming to a stop next to me and leaning on the locker. She taps the hip pocket of her blazer. "Come over?"

"Um…"

She rolls her eyes. "Isabella. Come on. We'll get Alice to come. And maybe some of the guys."

"Then _no_," I say, pushing off the lockers and making my way down the hall. Rose huffs and falls in behind me. It would be bad enough to spend all afternoon getting messed up with just her and Alice. Invite a bunch of guys and before I know it, I'm alone in some bedroom being pinned to the bed by some arrogant, entitled prick, sticking his hands up my skirt and drooling all over my neck like it's supposed to turn me on. No thanks. Again, I've been there and done that and I don't want to do it anymore.

"But Iss…"

"I have a lot of homework to do. I can't," I protest.

"It's not like anyone will care if you don't do it," she says, and I suck in a breath. She's right. She doesn't say it to be hurtful, it's just the truth. Whether I stay home and do my homework or go over to Rose's and get completely fucked up will matter to absolutely no one but me. And Rose. But she's rooting for me to get fucked up, so she doesn't count.

"I think my mom is home this afternoon," I mutter. Rose sighs, but refrains from saying anything else, which I'm grateful for. She can be kind, when she wants to be.

At the door to Calculus, I peel off and wave goodbye to her, as she continues on to World History. Emmett jogs past me to catch her, falling into step beside her. He whispers something in her ear that makes her duck her head and smile.

Calculus is purgatory; it always is for me. I have such a hard time focusing on this stuff. It doesn't help that the school year is more than halfway over, so any incentive the rest of the seniors in my class had to knuckle down and pay attention is now gone. Early admissions have all gone out; college is decided for everybody. Now they're just marking time until freedom.

Alice is in Calc with me, though. Halfway through, she slides her notebook towards me. In the bottom left corner, in purple ink, it says "_Rose's house?_"

I give her a tiny shake of the head. Her shoulders fall and her head tips sideways. Her disappointment is comical in its dramatic flair. I try not to laugh at her and the big Bambi eyes she's giving me.

I like Alice. I've been friends with Rose since freshman year, and my loyalty is always with her, since she bestowed the gift of her friendship on me when she didn't have to. Alice has started to hang around with us sometimes during this past year and she's great. In some ways, she's easier to be around than Rose. It's more natural with her. Rose, and her dedication to having fun at any cost, can wear a person out. Sometimes I think I'd like to be closer with Alice, and do stuff with just the two of us, without the pressure of Rose and the temptation that she's always waving under my nose. But I'd never cut Rose out like that, so we only hang out in a group. I think she might be nervous about being alone with Rose, without the buffer of me there.

But I can't do this stuff anymore. I just don't want to. So I stand firm. I shrug my shoulders helplessly and shake my head again, as if there are higher powers at work and I have to just go along. Alice doesn't push, which is another thing I like about her.

After school, Alice and I walk towards the front, where the students are all emptying out onto 77th street. The older kids are hanging on the stone steps, lighting up cigarettes, making plans on phones. There is a sea of black town cars at the curb, each waiting to pick up their appointed wealthy spawn and squire them back home, or to tutoring, or dance class, or tennis lessons, or whatever the next event might be.

Rose is leaning on the stair rail. Emmett is standing in front of her, legs splayed, one foot on either side of Rose's. They've fooled around some in the past. Emmett's fooled around with a lot of girls, and Rose has had her fair share of guys. But I always get the feeling Emmett's fond of Rose— that he might like her a little as a person. I hope he's going over to her place with her. I won't worry about leaving her messed up in a house full of people if Emmett's there. Nobody will mess with Rose when he's around, except maybe him.

"You sure you won't come, Iss?" Alice says. She's fidgeting with her ribbon headband, making sure the bow is precisely positioned, before she smooths down the inky black curtain of her hair.

I shake my head. "No, you guys have fun. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Maybe I'll call you later?" Alice asks. I hear the tentative, hopeful note in her voice. She's reaching out to me, wanting to be closer to me, and it makes me feel warm inside.

"Sure," I laugh. "If you're in any shape to call anybody."

She rolls her eyes and chuckles, before turning to join Rose and Emmett on the steps.

I weave through the sea of navy uniforms, checking names in car windows, until I spot mine: Dwyer. I open the back door and throw my bag across the seat before sliding in after it.

"Hey, Felix," I say, smiling.

"Miss Isabella," Felix says, also smiling. He's already turning off his Christian talk radio and turning it to the alternative satellite station for me.

It's ridiculous that a car is sent for me every day. Our apartment is only twelve blocks from Spencer; an easy walk. But I'm not supposed to walk so every morning and every afternoon, a black town car drives me the twelve blocks, usually taking longer than it would have if I'd walked. I don't argue anymore. Anyway, I like Felix and he gets paid for driving me.

At our building, I greet Santiago, the day doorman, and he calls the elevator for me. Inside, I use my key to access our penthouse, the 23rd and 24th floors, at the top of the building. The elevator opens directly into the foyer on 23, all cream and gold and crystal. The flowers in the vase on the little side table are a vibrant explosion of purples and scarlet. They're fresh and they're changed daily. I like today's.

I pass right through the foyer and the gallery, past the living room and the formal dining room, to the staircase leading to the upper floor. At the end of the long cream-carpeted hall is my room. It's small; smaller than every other bedroom in the house. When I first came to live here, I was put in one of the larger guest rooms, but it was too cavernous after the tiny room under the eaves that I had grown up in. So I asked to move to the little room. It was just the right size, and no one cared how I kept it.

After I deposit my book bag on a chair and trade out my uniform for a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt, I head back downstairs for some water and something to eat. I wasn't lying to Rose; I do have homework.

My mother, when she speaks behind me, scares the life out of me. I thought I was home alone. I spin and flatten myself against the refrigerator, one hand pressed to my chest as I wait for my heart rate to slow down. My mother doesn't seem to notice that she startled me, because she doesn't mention it; she just starts talking, as if we've been in the middle of a long conversation. We haven't crossed paths in three days.

"Your Art Appreciation seminar starts tomorrow."

"My….what?"

Renee blinks once at me, her face expressionless. As she gets older, and the procedures stack up, she's more and more expressionless. I can never read her now. Is she displeased or is that just the way she looks now?

"Art Appreciation," she repeats slowly. Displeased.

"I don't take Art Appreciation."

"It's a special seminar, Isabella," she says. "With this fabulous young artist Mimi Weigert discovered in some gallery in the Meatpacking District. She had to move heaven and earth, but she's got him doing this…" Renee waves her hand absently in the air to indicate that she has no idea what she's talking about, nor does she care. "…_seminar_ of some sort. Ten weeks."

"But….I can't draw."

"It's _appreciation_, Isabella. He'll teach you to appreciate it."

"The semester's already started. My schedule is set," I protest again, although I don't know why I bother. This has already been decided.

"They said you'd miss study hall and gym three days a week."

That doesn't sound so bad, actually.

Renee fixes me with her hardest look, and I know I can't argue any more. "Mimi Weigert and Cynthia Tidwell have both got their kids in this thing. There were only ten slots. Do you know how many asses I had to kiss and how long I had to spend on the phone shouting at those Spencer idiots to get you into it? But I managed, so you're going."

I nod mutely. This isn't about me anyway, so nothing I have to say about it would matter. Amongst people like my mother— like Mrs. Weigert and Mrs. Tidwell— the education of their children is a blood sport. There's no advantage they'll willingly pass up, no perceived edge they don't want for their offspring. My mother has zero interest in me gaining an appreciation for art. But this seminar— this shiny new toy Mrs. Weigert has managed to procure for a chosen few— is too tempting for my mother to pass up. If Mimi Weigert's daughter is taking it, then by God, Renee Dwyer's daughter will, too. If I didn't get in, it would be seen as a failing on my mother's part. It would reflect badly on her. So she did what she had to do to make it happen; not for me— for her.

After another moment, I shrug and nod my acquiescence. After all, I'll get out of study hall and gym three times a week, and I like art enough.

Renee misses my nod; she isn't waiting for it. She's scowling at one of her nails, no doubt just noticing a chip that will have to be dealt with.

"Phil and I are going out tonight," she mutters, eyes still on her nails. "We have dinner with some people. You can manage."

She's not asking me if I can, she's telling me that I will. I roll my eyes, because I spend most nights alone. Having her around would be weirder than having her gone. The first two years I was here we had a nanny, but Maria has been long gone and our housekeeper doesn't live in, so most nights, it's just me. I'm fine with that.

Renee is still wearing her workout clothes, so she must have just come from the gym downstairs. Her body is enviable; that's hard to deny. She pays her personal trainer a fortune, and it shows in every tight, toned inch of her. She's still really pretty. People say I look like her, but I don't see it. Maybe in the bone structure, but hers is getting lost under the procedures. I wish she wouldn't get so much work done. She's only thirty-seven. But she feels like she has to pull out all the stops to live up to her role as the wife of Phillip Dwyer, so once a year, she will say she's going on vacation for a couple of weeks to Ibiza, when really, she's recovering from her latest procedure at Lenox Hill. I suppose I might see the resemblance more if we still shared the same dark brown hair, but Renee has been blonde for years.

I'm not stupid; I've heard what people say about her. They still talk and wonder about how she landed Phillip Dwyer. Her money has bought her a certain standing, but the whispers will never go away entirely. After all, she was just a little nobody from the sticks, dating her way through investment bankers and mid-level corporate executives. But she had a plan and she wasn't aiming low. Those men were just practice, so she'd know how to act and what to talk about. And they provided entry to the places where the really big prizes were; parties and gatherings where men like Phillip Dwyer, president of The Dwyer Fund spent time. Looking at it from the outside, it's rather impressive that she managed to snag his interest at all, just being some uneducated small-town girl. But Renee possesses a talent for reinvention to rival Madonna's, and what she is now bears very little resemblance to what she was then. Or so I can surmise; I don't remember her from back then. I was too young when she left us.

If it was no small feat to catch the eye of a man like Phillip Dwyer, it's nothing short of a miracle that she managed to bust up his marriage to his first wife and actually marry him. And now that she's got the prize of prizes, she works like hell to hang onto him. Phil, and keeping Phil happy, are the center of her life. That's the reason for the endless work-outs and the surgery. She needs to stay as young and beautiful as she once was if she wants to avoid getting swapped out for the next younger, hotter model. I don't get it, but I see what she's up against every day. My classmates all have young step-mothers. Some of them are on their second or third.

Renee stands there a few more minutes, but her attention is diverted by her messed-up manicure. She's forgotten I'm even here. I stand across from her, not sure if she has anything else to say. Then, after a moment, she turns and leaves the kitchen without another word. I take my water and an apple and head back up to my room.

*0*0*

I'm on my way into the lunchroom the next day, when Jane Weigert swings into step beside me, which is a little odd. We know each other, of course. Spencer is small; we operate in the very tight circles of the extremely wealthy. But we're not exactly friends. I don't trust her or like her, but mostly, I ignore her and she ignores me.

"I hear your mom got you into Art Appreciation."

"Yeah. You, too?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Well," I say, to be polite. "At least we'll get out of gym twice a week. And art's not so bad."

Jane snorts and flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "Yeah, like _that's_ the appeal."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't seen him yet?" she asks, a sly smile spreading across her face.

I shake my head. "Who? The teacher? Is he good-looking?"

Jane smiles wider and rolls her eyes. "Young and _so_ fucking hot. Why do you think he's here? My mother got one look at him and nothing was going to stop her from getting her fill."

I nod in understanding. He's probably sleeping with one of the moms. That makes sense. Why else would Spencer suddenly add some random Art Appreciation seminar after the semester has started? It's gross, but I'm still getting out of Study Hall and Phys Ed, so I'll deal. It's Jane's mom, anyway, not mine. Not that it would matter. Renee would probably sleep with him, too, given half a chance. Maybe that's why she wanted me in the class so badly.

Jane's news has piqued my interest, and I'm actually kind of eager to get to the class that afternoon so I can get a look at him. I get stopped in the hall by some guy in my American Government class. He says he wants to borrow my notes, but I know what he's really after. Last year, I sort of liked him. I thought he was cute. I don't know what's changed, but I don't care anymore. He's just another horny high school boy who will take me to some club and buy me one drink with his fake I.D., then think it entitles him to a blowjob afterward. I'm done with all that. It takes me forever to get free of him, though, and I'm one of the last ones to get to the class. Jane and Chelsea Tidwell are already there, as are Marc, Corin and a couple of other guys who are all on the lacrosse team together. I slide into a chair in the back just as the door up front opens and he comes in.

I feel my face flush just looking at him, and something funny happens in my chest. Jane told me he was hot, but that doesn't even begin to describe him. He_ is_ young; not that much older than us. Actually, he can't be very far out of college—early twenties. He's tall and a little bit lanky, but well-built. Nice shoulders. Long legs. He has his head down as he comes in. He's nearly late and he looks preoccupied and a little distracted. Plus he's carrying a lot of stuff; books and folders full of paper. At first, all I notice is his body and the hair— thick and almost too long; somewhere between auburn and brown and all messy. Not artfully messy, like the boys I go to school with, every angle carefully and expensively razored. _Messy_, messy. Like he hasn't had a haircut in too long and he doesn't own a brush.

He spends a second setting all his stuff down on the desk and I notice all the girls around me have stopped talking and turned to look at him. The boys are still murmuring, but I can hear the dismissive scoffs starting. They're jealous already, and they should be. The poser rich boys at Spencer can't hold a candle to this guy, and it's obvious. Even with all their money, they can't touch what he has; this natural magnetism that radiates off his skin.

He finally looks up at us with a polite smile already on his face. I can't breathe for a second. He's sort of pale, but it looks good on him. And he's got these crazy cheekbones. His face would almost be pretty, if not for the strong jawline and his thick eyebrows. His eyes are a tiny bit angled; a little exotic. He is, without a doubt, the most amazing man I've ever laid eyes on in real life.

"Are you Mr. Cullen?" Jane is, predictably, the first one to speak. She's leaning forward on her elbows, and if I could see the front of her, I'm sure I'd see that she's popped open an additional button on her shirt to show off her cleavage.

His polite smile grows wider and genuine. I catch my breath at how it transforms his face. His eyes crinkle up in the corners and his angular face becomes warm and glowing, almost boyish. He lays a hand across his chest in mock-pain.

"Please…" he says. "Not Mr. Cullen. I can't take it. It's Edward."

And I'm undone. By all of it. His voice…low and vibrating at a frequency that I can feel in my fingertips; his artless demeanor; his _name_…Edward. I don't want to swoon. I can feel every girl in the room already doing it. But I can't help it. He's remarkable and every nerve in my body is reaching out towards him.

There is a low, nervous laugh from the girls in the room in response to his words. I'm silent. I can't laugh. I can't move. I curl my fingers around the edge of my desk and press my knees together, unable to do more than stare at him and record every tiny detail.

He's wearing a grey t-shirt under a beat-up blue plaid flannel shirt and loose fitting jeans. I don't know how he gets away with that at Spencer. He reaches up and runs a hand through his thick hair, smiling as the giggles die down. His hands are beautiful.

"So," he continues. "I'm Edward. Your turn."

He looks expectantly at Jane, who is front and center, and forcing herself into his field of vision.

She ducks her chin and makes a show of being caught off-guard. "Me? Oh…Jane. Jane Weigert."

Edward smiles that genuine smile again, and I hate Jane a little bit. I hate that the cheap act she's selling might work. But just as quickly, Edward's attention slips away from her, to Chelsea at her side.

Chelsea lets out a nervous giggle and manages to spit out her name. And so it goes on. The girls are simpering, giggling messes; the boys are hostile, dismissive and arrogant. Edward responds to them all the same; the same glowing, warm smile. He seems oblivious to both the male hostility and the female adoration.

When the introductions move to the back row, I see his eyes scan past me and then momentarily flit back and really _look_ at me. Before I can even register it, his eyes are gone again, on Gianna, two seats down from me. My heart starts beating a mile a minute anyway.

I wonder if I imagine it that when it's my turn to say my name, he doesn't look directly at me. I'm looking at him, but his eyes seem to be focused at a spot just over my right shoulder. Maybe it was like this for everyone. Maybe that warm connection he seemed to make with each of them was just in my imagination.

"Um. Isabella Dwyer," I say. I'd be surprised if he can even hear me, my voice is so low and soft. But at least I didn't squeak or stutter.

Once everyone has introduced themselves, he starts to talk about the class. A handout is distributed. I smooth it flat on my desk as if I'm poring over every word, but really, I'm watching the easy shift of his body as he moves around the desk; as he leans over to open a book; as he gestures with one hand. I want to pay attention to what he's saying, but all I can hear is the rise and fall of his voice, the rumble of his chuckle when he makes a little joke.

He's talking about art, about its role in history and its role in society. How it defines our humanity, and sets us apart from animals. He talks about how art is the record civilizations leave in history; about how we know ancient cultures through their art; about how it's the true window to the soul. I only register about every third word and somehow it still makes an impact on me. In our world, art is all around us. It's a commodity and another way to display the wealth, so everyone has some. I don't think I've ever given any of it more than a passing glance. Edward's words make me want to go back and stare for an hour at every painting I've ever seen. I feel like I've missed everything; every detail and nuance that he would have seen and I'm blind to. Renee told me he was an artist, too, and I wonder what his art looks like. Is he a sculptor or a painter? Maybe a photographer. I want to see his work, and I wonder if he's still got that show up in the Meatpacking District.

Edward distributes a book called _Art and Life_. I thumb through it as he talks about our first assignment. I let my fingertips skim past the glossy color photos on each page and feel a flare of anticipation. None of it would have meant much to me at all just an hour ago, but Edward holds the keys to this undiscovered world. I can't wait to dig in and figure it all out, because it feels like I'm figuring out some part of him, too.

He lets us go with another warm smile and a casual goodbye.

Jane finds a reason to approach him— some pretence of a question. He leans back on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other. I take my time packing up my stuff, trying to steal glances at him through the curtain of my hair. Jane is asking about his show in the Meatpacking District. Of course. That's how her mother "discovered" him. I remember my earlier suspicion—that he was sleeping with one of the moms—and I wonder if it's Jane's mother. It makes me feel sick to think about it. He doesn't seem like that. I don't know him, but he seems genuine and real; not like he'd sleep with some high society cougar to curry favor. I don't want to think he could be like that.

When I've packed my bag and I can't stall any longer, I straighten and turn, swinging it up on my shoulder. Jane has just retreated to her desk to get her books, and when I move, he looks up at me. _Really_ looks. Our eyes meet for a moment and I feel like I know him. It feels like we know each other—like we've known each other for years. It's like that feeling I had all through class, that I could see him better than anyone else, wasn't just product of my sudden crush and my overactive imagination. He's not smiling. That warm, boyish expression that he was so free with all through class is nowhere to be seen. In fact, he almost looks angry. His face is frozen, his eyes wide and alert.

I should say something or smile and flirt in some way. But I don't do anything. I just stare at him like the love-struck girl that I am, feeling speechless, slow and stupid. Finally, because I can feel the heat rising in my pale skin and I don't want him to see me blush like a child, I drop my eyes to the floor and duck my head. I can't look up at him again as I make my way down the steps and out of the room. Jane's saying some other pointless thing to him and laughing as the door swings shut behind me.

*0*0*

I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, leafing through _Art and Life_, working on my first assignment for Art Appreciation. I'm a good student, and I'd be working on it no matter what, but because it's for Edward, I'm spending extra time.

The assignment is to choose a work from the book that we feel says something about our lives, then we have to write five hundred words about why. As far as assignments go, it's not very hard. Spencer has high academic standards, and I'm used to producing thousands of words. But five hundred words for _Edward_— five hundred words about _my life_— feel like the most important words I might ever write.

I already found the painting; that part was surprisingly easy. But it's what to say about it that's leaving me stuck.

The moment I flipped past the picture, I knew. It's called _Ophelia_, and it was painted by somebody named John Everett Millais. It's supposed to be Ophelia from Hamlet, when she drowns herself in the river in Act Four. But the moment I saw it, I thought _'That's me'._

Her face is placid; on the surface, she seems peaceful. But the water is sucking her under and the trees are closing in around her. There are little white flowers all around her, but they don't looks sweet or pastoral; they are like eyes, always on her. She's laying there, floating, oblivious to the fact that she's already dying. The water is sucking her down and under, and there's nothing she can do about it, so she just floats and stares at the sky.

But I can't _say_ that. You say shit like that and the next thing you know, you're in the guidance counselor's office and your parents are shipping you off to some hospital in Canada for a "rest".

I spend two hours looking at other paintings, willing one of them to leap out at me, trying to read something about my life in the colors and shapes, but nothing comes. I keep finding myself flipping back to _Ophelia_. I look at her vacant face and her beautiful dress being inexorably sucked down into the water. I look at all the details of the painting, done so carefully. It should be pretty, but all that intricacy just feels smothering. Finally, I can't think of anything else to say, so I write the truth. It's bleak and a little maudlin, but I don't want to lie and give Edward some generic happy-faced line. For some reason, I feel the need to be honest with him. For some reason, I feel like he'll get it.

*0*0*

The next day, we each deposit our assignment on the desk as we come in the classroom. Edward is sitting behind the desk, leaning back in his chair, his right ankle propped on his left knee. He picks up each paper as they land in front of him and scans briefly to see which artwork we've chosen. I get the sense that he's doing it because he's genuinely curious; like this is how he understands people. He's so young—this is probably the first time in his life he's ever taught anything. He's not jaded and bored with it yet.

I steal one quick glimpse of him as I set my paper down. His eyes are still on Gianna's, so he doesn't catch me doing it. I haven't gotten close enough to him yet to be sure, but I think his eyes are green. As I head up the three shallow steps to my seat, I see him reach out and snag my paper. He pulls it into his lap and his eyes skim. His thick, dark eyebrows draw together and he reads. Two more people pass his desk and deposit papers and he doesn't make a move to look at them. He's still reading mine.

Corin enters the room and makes some loud joke about being late, and that snaps Edward out of it. He sits up abruptly and glances at the room, which has filled while he's been distracted. He smiles absently at everyone as he stacks the papers and places mine carefully on top. Then his eyes dart right up to me and he pins me. One long, intense look. I feel my face flushing, but I force myself to keep looking. He looks away first and I can exhale.

Edward starts to talk about the assignment, asking for volunteers to share. It's not hard at Spencer. We've been taught to be good students; always prepared and willing to participate. The girls are especially eager to share. They name the artworks they chose, and they say some nice, generic things about why. I don't say anything. I watch Edward as he watches them.

I'm obsessed with memorizing every little detail about him, but somehow, his words manage to reach me as well. I listen as he talks about art and how it can speak for us where words fail. I think about that—about how I felt when my book fell open to _Ophelia_ and I couldn't look away. I think about the way that artist, Millais, managed to paint how I feel, and he did it over a hundred years ago. For the first time, art is something more to me than a way to display wealth, another commodity. It's a person's soul, up there on the wall. And when things all line up right, it's your soul up there too.

When class is finished, I gather up my things again in slow motion, wanting to drag out the time that I'm in the same room with Edward. Jane and Chelsea have the same plan, so I can't stick around to be the very last one without being really obvious. I won't sink that low, so I shoulder my bag and make my way down to the front and cross the room towards the door. Edward has been packing up his things into a beat-up nylon messenger bag, only answering half the flirtatious comments thrown at him by Jane and Chelsea. When I'm passing in front of his desk, I hear his voice, low, meant just for my ears.

"_Ophelia_?"

I stop and half-turn to look at him. He's facing his chair, not me. His head is down, but he's turned to look at me over his shoulder. His face is a little amused, a little curious—but he's not teasing.

"_Ophelia_," I say, uncertain where he's going with the comment. My heart starts beating double-time.

"Should your parents be worried about that choice, Isabella?" He cocks an eyebrow at me and one corner of his mouth curls up. He's keeping it light, but there's a serious edge to his voice as well. The fact that he remembers my name and just said it makes me feel light-headed, even though there are only ten of us in the class and it would be hard for him to forget it.

I force a smile, trying to keep it light myself. "No, I'm not cutting myself or anything. It's a metaphor. I'm fine."

"Fine," he repeats evenly.

I make myself keep looking him in the eye, even though talking to him this way leaves me so unsettled that I'm suppressing the urge to flee the room. I'm pretty certain that his eyes are green. They're fringed by dark lashes so thick that they cast little shadows under his eyes.

"Yeah, _fine_."

"It just seems like a sad outlook for someone whose life is so…." He pauses and searches for the right word. "Fortunate," he finally says.

"I'm very lucky," I say. I've said this so many times that it's rote.

"Are you?" he says.

And he's giving me that same intense stare again; the one from earlier that I can't read at all. I don't know what he wants. I can't tell what he sees when he looks at me that way.

"I am," I whisper, then I turn and go.

*0*0*

A/N: I don't plan for this to be very long— somewhere between twelve and fifteen chapters.

Giant thanks for WhatsMyNomDePlume, who's beta'ing this for me.

More thanks to MsTallulahBelle for making me a lovely banner for this story. Link on my profile.

You can find a link to Millais' _Ophelia_ on my profile as well.

I was inspired to write this by the Rufus Wainwright song of the same title. Link on my profile.


	2. Counting Shades of Light

**Epic thanks to WhatsMyNomdePlume who beta'ed this and then graciously gave it another going-over when I got all neurotic about it.**

*0*0*

Saturday morning, I decide I'm going out. Edward told us where his current show is in The Meatpacking District. He probably wouldn't have told us—he wasn't trying to make us go—but when Chelsea asked him point-blank, it would have been weird and awkward if he _didn't_ tell us.

I debate all week about whether or not to go. But by Saturday, I know I can't stay away. He's been talking to us for two weeks about art and how it reflects the soul, and this is _Edward's_ art— _Edward's_ soul. I have to see it.

I get up and dress, thankful to be free of a uniform for a couple of days. Jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, boots. It's all very basic, but I still think I'm wearing nearly a thousand dollars worth of stuff. Nothing in the Dwyer family is ever cheap, even a t-shirt.

My mother is already out when I come downstairs, and I think Phil is in Switzerland. Lucy, our cleaning woman, is there when I pass through the kitchen. She smiles at me when I say 'good morning'.

Downstairs, I debate calling a car. My mother would insist, but I hate how obvious it makes me feel. I glance down at myself. I look completely ordinary, not worthy of notice at all, so I decide on the subway. I hit a Starbucks on my walk over to Lexington, and I feel so normal. It feels good to be one of the anonymous people filling the sidewalk all around me. When I'm out like this by myself, I could be anybody. I'm nobody.

I live on the Upper East Side and Edward's gallery is on the West side, in the teens. It takes me forever to get there by subway. It's one of those things that seemed like a good idea, but turns out to be a pain in the ass. Halfway there, after being pressed in tight against all the other nobodies for too long, I'm wishing I grabbed a cab. It's noon by the time I find the gallery in a narrow three-story brick building. The rest of it looks like any one of thousands of New York buildings, but the ground floor has been gutted out. It's all smooth white walls with a glass front and glowing light that seems to come from nowhere.

I take a deep breath and smooth my hair before pulling open the heavy glass door. Generally, I don't feel intimidated walking into places. The money makes that impossible. With my trust fund, I could buy this gallery, and the building housing it. Phil could buy the whole block. He could buy the surrounding five blocks, several times over. But I hate feeling young, and in this context, I _really_ hate it. More than anything, I don't want to seem like some little high school girl, even though Edward's not even here. Now I'm wishing I wore something else. A hoodie? What was I thinking?

But I make myself go in and look like I belong; like an eighteen-year-old gallery-hopping alone on a Saturday is totally normal. I pick up a glossy, oversized postcard from the empty desk by the front door and skim the back. Besides Edward, two other artists are involved in this show. I make my way slowly around the periphery of the room, trying not to appear completely disinterested in the works by the other artists, even though I am.

When I finally get to one with Edward's name under it, I just stop and stare. It's big— five feet by seven feet, maybe. It's a vibrant battle of hot colors. At first glance, I think it's abstract, but the longer I look, the more I see. There are bodies— figures drifting in and out of focus. Sometimes it's just a hint of a person, sometimes it's a whole outline. Washed over the bodies, obscuring them, and then highlighting them, is all this _color_. The painting feels like a living, pulsing thing. The color— it feels sensual. It feels like it's wrapping around the figures. It feels alive and intimate. I think I feel my pulse pick up just looking at it. If this is Edward's soul, then he's even more fascinating than I thought. And I already thought he was pretty fascinating.

"See something you like?"

His voice, right next to my ear, makes me yelp and jump a foot in the air. Edward snaps upright and steps back to avoid getting hit by me as I startle. I feel the stupid blush immediately flood my face and I let out a nervous, huffing giggle. As I clamp a hand over my heart and try and slow my breathing down, he smiles, broad and genuine, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. It's not helping to slow my breathing.

"I can't believe you came by," he says in wonder.

I scramble in my head for a plausible lie, one that keeps me from looking like the sad stalker I really am. "You told us where it was, and Jane's mother said it was really good. I was passing by on my way to the Apple Store and I saw your name up front. Is this okay? That I stopped by? I didn't think you'd be here. "

"Yeah, it's fine. It's great, actually." Maybe it's my overactive imagination, but he seems slightly deflated at what I've said; which part, I'm not sure. "I'm not usually here. I needed to see the gallery owner about something. So, what do you think?"

"Um, this one is the first of yours I've seen. But it's amazing. Seriously, I'm so blown away that you did this."

Edward's delight is evident. "Thanks. I'm glad you think so. You want a private tour with the artist?" he says, the corner of his mouth curling up. He's joking when he says it, all fake pretentiousness, but something about what it implies makes me look at him and make eye contact. The energy I feel snapping between us makes me hold my breath. I think I see Edward's cocky grin falter ever so slightly. But he just tips his head to indicate I should follow him, and starts to guide me around the room.

"I probably shouldn't fish," he starts. "But do you like Art Appreciation so far?"

"Yes," I say, way too enthusiastically. But it makes him smile, so it's okay. "It's really… all this stuff about art—I never thought about it before, but now, it's like I can't _stop_ thinking about it.

"That's… I'm really glad to hear that. You have a natural eye for art, Isabella. Your observations in your papers…" he shakes his head. "I wasn't that coherent when I was in _college_."

"Thank you," I murmur.

"So here's the first one in the series," he says, pointing to the painting on my left. "They're meant to be viewed in sequence, and there's a build up… like one leads into the next until…"

"That one," I point to a painting on the opposite wall, because now that he tells me they're related, it's plain as day that they all lead to a climax at that one.

"Right," he murmurs. "Very good."

"So when you say there's a build-up—a build-up of what? What do you mean?"

He grins and ducks his chin and I could swear he's embarrassed. "Well, I was trying to… I mean, it's an exploration of…"

"Oh, they're about sex." I finish for him, because now that I really look at them all together, I can see it. And I can _feel_ it.

"Ah… well, not just sex. How sex… relationships, really… shape us and change us. How people use sex and get used by it. How it's not just about two people coming together; it's also about an exchange of power. All of that."

I just nod, because there's not a thing I can say that won't make me blush like crazy. And because, as I think about his words, they're really dark and not at all romantic. I don't like to think about the life experiences he's had that brought him to that place.

"Sorry," he continues after a minute. "That was probably too much to throw at you."

"No, it wasn't. When I look at your paintings, I can see exactly what you're talking about."

He laughs and rolls his eyes. "Great. And now I feel like a pervert."

It makes me laugh, too. "No, it's fine. What about all those frilly French paintings you showed us in class? You said they were all about sex, even though they looked so sweet and pretty."

"The Fragonards?"

"Yeah, those. You're just putting it a little more front and center than they did, right?"

He glances at me briefly. "I guess. It's a little intense for high school. I just forget…." He closes his eyes and shakes his head a little "As long as you don't feel like I just corrupted your youth or something."

I swallow hard and make myself not look away from him. "You're not doing that."

He looks back for a beat too long, but before things can get weird—well, weirder— he motions to another set of paintings. "Come look at these. I was doing something different with these."

As we look at his paintings, he talks about the work— he talks about themes and influences and intent, and a lot of it goes over my head but I hang onto every word anyway. He doesn't talk down to me because I'm just a student. He talks to me like I'm just anybody, or like I'm a friend, even.

I soak up every word like they're little drops of him which, in a way, they are. Every word he says about his art is a word about him, another very little piece of him that makes up the very big picture. I revel in it, marveling in this moment, him standing next to me, talking _only_ to me about what goes on in his head and heart. It makes me feel special, not just another face in his class. I'm here sharing this with him, and no one else is. He seems to be enjoying talking to me. He's not trying to cut things short, or making excuses to leave soon. While I'm standing here with him, it's like there's no one else in the world. All his attention is on me.

As much as I like listening to him talk about art in our class, hearing him talk about his own work is a whole new thing. That boyish energy is vibrating out of him. His eyes are bright and he can't stop smiling as he tells me about brushwork and color theory. It's like the most exciting thing he can imagine and his enthusiasm is catching. Edward's art is the most exciting thing I've ever seen, partly because of him but also just because it is.

We're looking at the last one. He presses me again, "What does it make you think?" He must like that question. He asks it a lot.

"Um," I take a second to consider my words. "It doesn't actually make me _think_ anything. It makes me _feel_."

Edward smiles at me. "Really? Well, what does it make you feel, then?"

"It's nothing as specific as 'happy' or 'sad'. It's just this feeling in my chest…all these colors, they make me feel uneasy and excited at the same time…" I close my eyes and shake my head. "I'm sorry. That makes absolutely no sense."

"No," he says quietly, touching my elbow. "What you just said is brilliant. It's exactly what I hoped for when I painted it."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

I look up at him and he's already looking at me. His face is so serious. There's nothing flippant or teasing about him. I'm getting butterflies as we look at each other, not saying anything.

I'm letting it flow over me and fill me, like a warm river, when I hear voices, too loud for this small, echoing space, over by the front door.

"This is the one I told you about, Tori, the artist. I swear, when you see him…"

Edward and I turn in unison to see. It's Jane's mother, talking to another woman I don't know. They're weighed down with shopping bags. Mimi Weigert is blonde, like Jane, but from a bottle, like my mother. She's wearing a long cream leather jacket and large diamond studs flash from her earlobes. She's very tan and I remember Jane saying she was just in St. Bart's. Her friend, "Tori", is tall and attractive, with long, straightened red hair. She's pushing her oversized Gucci sunglasses up into her hair and swiveling to look at the paintings around her as Mimi Weigert talks to her. I see Tori's eyes land on us; I see them zero in on Edward. Mimi turns to look and her face lights up.

"Speak of the devil!" she shrieks, still too loud. She starts charging across the room in our direction. "Edward!"

I chance a look at him. He's smiling awkwardly, extending a hand to her. "Hello again, Mrs. Weigert."

Mimi seizes his hand in one of hers. With her other, she reaches out and grabs his bicep, so he has to linger in the handshake with her. Her bags bang into his side, but she doesn't seem to notice because she doesn't let go. "Now, Edward, you know I told you to call me 'Mimi'."

"Mimi," he repeats obediently.

"I brought my friend, Tori, over to see your work. We never thought we'd get lucky enough to see the artist himself. This _is_ a pleasant surprise."

Everything about this, the way she's still gripping his hand and his arm, the way she emphasizes her words, the predatory way her eyes are running all over Edward, makes me feel nauseous. Tori, another exquisitely-preserved cougar, has joined her, and she's having a hard time keeping herself from openly ogling him. She's smiling and standing with her feet just so, to show off her sculpted thighs and tight ass to perfection.

The whole time I've been here and Edward's been showing me his paintings, I didn't feel like a kid. I felt like just another person. It felt like Edward and I were just two friends talking about art. Now I feel like a child, invisible and overlooked. I want to run away. Just then, Mimi seems to notice me standing there. Her eyes meet mine and one eyebrow cocks in a silent question.

"Hi, Mrs. Weigert," I say. "I go to school with Jane. We're in Art Appreciation together."

Her surgically sculpted face freezes even more for a moment as she processes that. She remembers who I am, of course. I'm Phillip Dwyer's daughter, so I'm hardly a nobody. But I also see her wheels turning, trying to sort out what I'm doing _here_, with _Edward_. She clearly feels possessive of him. "Of course. Isabella, right?"

"Right. It was nice to see you again," I say, stepping back to go.

"You're going?" Edward says, reaching out to touch my elbow again. I see Mimi's eyes flicker down to the movement and I swallow around the lump in my throat.

"Yeah," I say, remembering my earlier lie. "I still need to get over to the Apple Store."

"Oh, yeah… right," he says, like he's just remembered that I didn't set out to come here originally. Which I did. But he doesn't need to know that. "I guess I'll see you in class."

"Yep. Class. Bye, Mrs. Weigert. It was nice seeing you again."

She smiles, her lips tight and her eyes hard. "Yes, nice to see you, Isabella. Please say hello to your mother for me."

I force a smile and nod, feeling small and young and entirely dismissed. I turn and leave without looking at Edward again. Outside on the sidewalk, I stop and take a few deep breaths, willing away the stinging behind my eyes. So stupid. It felt so good to talk to him alone like that, that I forgot about the rest. I forgot about his questionable arrival at our school. Mimi Weigert certainly didn't forget. I suppose I can't fault him. His art is amazing, but he can't possibly earn a living just off his paintings. So a rich woman wants to do him a few favors. It's certainly not the first time it's ever happened, and he wouldn't be the first handsome, penniless young man to accept. My mind flickers over Gianna's tennis instructor two years ago, and the guy who did the remodel of the Taylor's house last year. The stories circulate constantly. Edward is only the latest in a long line of them. Inexplicably, it still makes me feel like I've lost something precious. Something that was, apparently, never mine.

*0*0*

I'm walking towards Art Appreciation with Alice. She's telling me all about some party she went to this weekend and I'm really trying to pay attention, but all I can think of is that soon I'll be _there,_ sharing the same space as _him_. Alice is preoccupied with her story and doesn't seem to notice how distracted I am.

"So then Rose was talking to this guy…"

"What guy?" I finally interrupt.

"Some guy. He goes to Horace Mann."

"Was she messed up?"

Alice shrugs, "A little. She didn't hook up with him, though. Emmett was there and he keeps her from doing anything too crazy."

I sigh in relief. Rose's partying is getting more out of hand as our senior year winds down. There are more drinks, more drugs and way more hook-ups. At first, I thought of it as just facets of her personality that were different from mine— a few things that we didn't have in common. But lately, I feel like she's transforming; she's in the process of becoming someone I don't know. I'm a little sad about it, but mostly, I'm worried, because this new Rose is reckless.

"I'm glad Emmett was there."

"Yeah," Alice agrees. "He's a total player, but I think he likes her. He looks out for her." I nod in agreement.

"So what are you doing today after school?" Alice says. She's trying to hide how eager she is. If possible, Alice sees less of her parents than I do. She's been raised almost entirely by a string of nannies and au pairs. I feel sorry for her. She's spent her whole life surrounded by these entitled rich kids. She _is _a rich kid, but somehow it didn't affect her. She's so nice—there's not a snobby, entitled bone in her body. She shouldn't be so lonely. She's the only person in New York that I feel like I could have been friends with before I came here.

"Homework. I have a paper I'm working on," I tell her honestly.

"You want to study together? I have a ton of chemistry homework."

I think about that for a minute, and I think about Rose. I have no idea where Rose is or what she's doing today. It occurs to me that we haven't really talked in days and I can't remember the last time she came to my house.

"Sure, Alice. That would be fun. My parents are gone. We can order dinner if you want."

Alice's face lights up with happiness and I feel good about this.

We're at the door to Art Appreciation, which is open. Gianna pushes past me to get inside. She stops at Edward's desk and launches into a loud, funny story about her weekend. I'm trying to be cool and listen to Alice, but my eyes travel to him of their own accord, trying to gauge his reaction to her.

"Hmm," Alice says.

"What?"

"The art teacher," she says.

"What about him?"

"_You_ and the art teacher," she says, like that explains everything.

"Alice, he's my teacher."

She shrugs. "For a few more weeks. You're eighteen. And besides, I heard he's not really a teacher. He's a Guest Lecturer. Not the same thing."

"That's a technicality, and you're crazy."

"Maybe. But you should have seen your face when you looked at him."

I feel my color drain away and I look at the ground.

"Isabella, it's cool," Alice says quietly, stepping closer to me and laying a hand on my arm. "I'm not going to say anything about it. Just… you know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

I look back up at her. Her eyes are wide and sincere; her expression is solemn. "Thanks, Alice."

She relaxes and her smile is beaming. "See you after school?"

"Yeah, meet me out front and you can ride over in our car."

"Okay." And she's gone, skipping around people as she makes her way down the hall. I'm uneasy that someone has sensed my fixation on Edward, but if anyone has to know, I'm glad it's Alice.

*0*0*

Edward is showing us slides today. He's really excited about showing us these masterworks, exposing us to them for the first time. The AV department delivered a slide projector on a trolley before class started and it's pretty apparent that Edward has no idea how to work it.

He is talking to us about significant moments in art history, his lecture punctuated with loud grunts and pauses as he tries to get the slide carousel to engage properly. Spencer has so much money, and the latest technology in almost every respect—except slide projectors. I'm guessing that almost no one uses them anymore, so this thing they've delivered looks like it dates from the early seventies. It's an artifact that no one in the room seems at all familiar with. No one except me.

Finally, I can't take watching him struggle anymore and I raise my hand. "Excuse me, Mr. Cull….Edward?"

He swivels to look at me, and I feel suddenly shy, but I remind myself of talking to him at the gallery and pull my nerves together.

"Can I try?"

He looks at me for another moment, then his face cracks into a grin and he steps away from the projector, inviting me in with a flourish of his arm. I slide out of my desk and make my way over to it. Edward continues with his lecture, keeping one eye on me as I work. In a matter of minutes, the tray clicks and the glowing image of the first slide appears on the screen at the front of the room.

Edward looks from the picture to me.

"We had these in my old school," I shrug.

"Can you stay here and work it, Isabella?"

I nod and he smiles before going to the front to switch out the lights. He starts his lecture again, talking about great works of art and what makes them great. Every few minutes, he points at me to indicate I should advance to the next slide. I feel useful; closer to him this way. Which is pathetic and sad, but I can't help it.

Edward is an off-the-cuff lecturer. It's clear that he is prepared and has a plan, but frequently, he gets inspired, or remembers something that he just _has_ to tell us, and then he's off on a tangent. The tangents are always interesting, and his enthusiasm is infectious, so no one ever seems to mind.

That's what happens today. I have up the slide of a Rembrandt portrait when suddenly Edward wants to talk about existentialism and landscapes. He hurries up the three shallow steps to the back of the room, where I am, to find the slide he wants us to see. Quickly, he leans in and in turn, I lean to the left to make room for him. There isn't time to step aside. He absently places a hand on the small of my back to steady me and himself as he searches. All I can feel, all I can _think_, is that he's touching me. I can feel the heat and weight of his hand, even through the wool of my blazer. I imagine I can feel every one of his fingertips, flared out across my skin. He's so close, leaning across me, the projector illuminating his face from underneath. I can smell him; I can feel him. I can imagine what it would feel like to be pressed against him and my face flushes, making me grateful for the dark.

He makes a satisfied little click with his tongue as he identifies the one he wants, and turns his face to me. He seems to realize all at once how close he is to me, and I see the nerves play across his face. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. I feel his fingers flex, almost imperceptibly, on my back.

"Can you advance it to this one?" he murmurs, low and rough. I nod. He straightens up and I can finally exhale. His hand drops away and he takes a step back. My hands are shaking as I press the buttons to advance the carousel.

Edward starts talking again, now about early nineteenth century landscapes, but I have no hope of following, because he hasn't moved away. He's not touching me anymore, but he's less than a foot away and the air in that space feels electrified. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as I listen to him, to my right and slightly behind me. My whole right side is tingling. He could reach out and touch me again so easily. Every nerve ending in my body feels primed for it, just waiting, anticipating the contact, even as I know he won't do it. I keep my eyes fixed on the illuminated image at the front of the room, even though none of my attention is there. It feels like the dark has closed in around us. There are still nine other people in the room, but they're in front of us, facing away. Back here, in the dark, there's only him and me, so close we could be touching, except that we're not.

"Now compare that to what you see happening in America at the same time," Edward is saying. He pauses, then I feel it: his hand on the back of my arm. "Can you advance to the next one, Isabella?" His voice is so low and soft, so different from his lecture voice. I tingle and can't breathe. I fumble my fingers up to the button and advance the slide. His hand lingers on the back of my arm. Now it's definitely there longer than it needs to be. I'm practically panting with nerves. Then his hand retreats and he keeps talking, back to his normal lecture voice. But it was _there_, I know it. His fingers touched me and stayed. I didn't imagine it.

He stays in the back of the room for the rest of the lecture, just a foot away from me, and I imagine that it's because he felt that too, and wants to stay close. The idea that he might be feeling the same intoxicating energy that I feel makes me giddy and overwhelmed. I don't know what to do with the knowledge. I can't even admit that I know it, because I might be wrong. Except that he touched me and lingered when he didn't have to. That was real.

Class ends and he finally moves back to the front of the room to turn on the lights. He stays, shuffling papers and books on his desk, while the rest of the class stretches and packs their bags. I busy myself shutting down the projector and packing it back up for him. By the time I'm done and I've collected my stuff, I'm nearly the last one there. Corin is still there, but he almost doesn't count, since he's only standing there while he finishes typing out his text. He's oblivious to anything else.

I make my way down to the front and start to cross to the door.

"Isabella?"

I stop I my tracks and turn to face him, heart pounding. He's looking at me with that same intense, unreadable face that I saw on the first day of class. Except now I imagine that I might be able to read it a little bit. I want to lick my lips, but I refrain and just press them together instead. He's pausing too long to say what he has to say. The silence is heavy and tense, and he hasn't looked away from my face.

"Thanks for your help with the projector," he finally says, with the same low, hoarse voice from before. "I appreciate it."

"No problem," I say, so softly that I might as well be whispering.

"See you next class."

I just nod. I'm not imagining this, the weight and the energy between us. I just don't know what, if anything, I can or should do about it. So I just tuck my hair behind my ear and smile a little. He seems to relax a tiny bit, and smiles back. It breaks the tension enough that I can finally turn and leave the room.

*0*0*

**A/N: **

To say that I'm overwhelmed by the response to the first chapter would be a gross understatement. I hope I don't disappoint you and thanks for the very enthusiastic welcome.

There's a link on my profile to the Fragonard painting they talked about in the gallery.


	3. Hope Around the Edges

**Endless thanks to WhatsMyNomDePlume for beta'ing, but I always tinker endlessly after she sends it back, so the mistakes are all mine.**

*0*0*

I'm standing on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. My fingers are working the strap of my shoulder bag as I glance at my phone and determine that I'm still too early. I want to brush my hair again, or put on some lip gloss. But doing any of those things will mean that I'm primping for him, and I can't do that, so I don't. I hate that I'm wearing my uniform, but it can't be helped. Technically, this is still school.

This is not our usual class day, but Edward scheduled a trip to the Met, so we were all released for the afternoon to go. He announced it in class on Monday. Then the next day, word filtered through the halls that today would be Senior Skip Day. It's a tradition and with the semester almost over, I should have known it was coming up soon. Today has been declared the day—Corin's parents are in London for the week, so he's having a huge party. Everyone is going. Everyone but me.

I knew Senior Skip Day was today, and I could have told Edward so that he could reschedule the field trip. I didn't do that. I knew no one would show. Except me. And him. I feel bad about my subterfuge. Well, it's not really subterfuge; I just withheld information. It would have been_ nice_ of me to tip him off, but it wasn't mandatory. This is what I'm telling myself so that I don't feel bad about what I'm doing.

I don't even know why I'm doing it. Yes, there have been these moments that leave me breathless, tingling, full of senseless longing for him. Yes, once or twice, his face and his eyes have made me think he feels it too, at least a little bit. And there was that one time when he touched me when he didn't have to, and lingered a little longer than he should have. I add all these things up and all I get is that he might think I'm attractive. Nothing more than that.

But I can't help it. I'm so consumed by him that I can't think straight. I'm grasping for little bits of him, anything I can get.

So ten minutes later, when I'm no longer stupidly early, I climb the wide, flat steps to the front entrance and go in to find him. He's standing by the information kiosk in the middle of the huge entrance hall. His head is bowed as he reads a brochure. He's wearing jeans with a flannel shirt over a t-shirt again. He wears some combination of this outfit every day, but I never get tired of it. He's got his messenger bag slung diagonally across him so that the strap hugs his back right between his shoulder blades. I can see the outline of his wide shoulders. I can imagine how he looks without his shirt, all smooth and lightly muscled, and my mouth goes dry.

He glances up to look around and his eyes meet mine. There it is again. Intensity. Something snapping between us when we look at each other. Then his eyes cut to the side and he turns to face me and makes eye contact again, no intensity this time. He smiles, slightly forced and casual, but I smile back.

"Hey," I say, when I get close enough. 

"Hi, Isabella. Have you seen anybody else yet?"

Here it goes. I have to tell him. I've figured out a lie to soften this blow, too. The things I've been reduced to for this man— I hardly know myself sometimes.

"Yeah, about that…I got a text this morning. It's, um…Senior Skip Day today."

His eyebrows pitch up a little in surprise. "Senior Skip Day?"

"You didn't have Senior Skip Day back when you were in high school?"

"Isabella, it wasn't _that_ long ago. I'm only twenty-two; cut me some slack!"

He's laughing and doing that mock-wounded thing again, slapping his hand over his chest. I'm laughing too, and celebrating a little on the inside, since he unwittingly just told me how old he is, and it's only four years older than me.

"Sorry," I say.

"I'm teasing. Yes, we had Senior Skip Day _back in my day_, but I'm just surprised it happens at a school like Spencer."

"Well, it _is_ still high school."

"I suppose," he says. "So… Senior Skip Day. I guess that means nobody's coming?"

"I'm here," I point out. "But yeah… I don't think anybody else is going to show."

"Okay, well, then…." he says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. I'm afraid he's about to bail on me and call the whole thing off. I will die if he does.

"Can we still do the lecture?" I say quickly, hoping I don't sound as transparent as I feel. "I mean, we're here already and everything…"

He pauses and looks at me. I try and look back without seeming so desperately infatuated with him. I can see all kinds of thoughts playing out behind his eyes. I'm not sure what they are, but there's no doubt that he's seriously debating something with himself.

Finally, he smiles and shrugs. "Sure. Of course. Let's go."

I finally let out my breath and turn to walk next to him.

"So if it's Senior Skip Day, why are you here?" he asks, as we pay the admission fee and get our little clip-on colored tags. "Wait… you are a senior, aren't you?"

"Um, yeah, I'm a senior," I say, shrugging. "I don't know. All the partying… I sort of laid off this year. I'm over that scene."

Edward just nods. He's leading the way to the gallery he wants us to start in. "So school's almost over for you. What's next?"

"Brown," I answer.

Edward looks surprised. "Brown… wow. That's a good school. You must be a good student, huh? I mean, you're good in my class; you must be everywhere else, too."

"I suppose so. I always have been." I don't tell him that I would have gotten into Brown with or without my grades. I don't like to draw attention to the power the money wields. "Where did you go to college?"

"School of Visual Arts, here in the city."

"Oh, art school. Right. That makes sense, since you're so talented."

He just smiles that earth-shattering crooked smile he's got and ducks his head a little.

"So, is it unusual that you have your own show already?" I ask. "You seem kind of young to be doing that."

"I am a little young. It helped that I went to school in New York. I was getting known by galleries before I was even out of school. And I had a few well-connected teachers in school that said some very nice things about my work to the right people. It helped to give me a boost. I was very fortunate."

"But you're so talented, too."

Again with the crazy, bashful smile. My insides turn to water. He's so, so beautiful.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"Are you from here originally?" I ask, after summoning my courage for a minute. He's being really casual and chatty here, when it's just the two of us, and I want to drag as much out of him as I can.

"No, Chicago, actually. Well, just outside Chicago. Evanston."

"Do you still have family there?"

"Just my parents."

"Are they cool with the whole artist thing?" I ask, because I can't imagine being able to make a choice like that.

Edward chuckles and wiggles his hand back and forth. I notice that he's got two tiny flecks of teal paint on his thumbnail. I like seeing the evidence that he's been working recently. "They're supportive enough, but I don't know if they really _get_ it. I mean, my dad sells insurance and my mom is a secretary at an elementary school. This isn't really their scene, you know? They helped out a little with art school, but I'm on my own now. Which is why…" He stops himself suddenly, but I know where he was going.

"That's why you're teaching Art Appreciation to a bunch of high school kids," I finish for him.

"Ah… yeah. I'm enjoying it, though. I like teaching so much more than I thought I would. You guys are great. But yeah… I really needed the cash and Mimi… Mrs. Weigert said she could set it up…"

He trails off and looks at his feet. Then he reaches up and rubs his hand through the hair on the back of his head like he's uncomfortable about something. He's uncomfortable about the patronage of Mimi Weigert— or at least, talking to me about it.

"I guess you do what you have to do to pay the rent," I say. I could be talking about teaching high school. But I what I'm really talking about is Mimi Weigert.

Edward lets out this humorless sort of laugh, but says nothing.

"I just want to paint," he says after a minute, his face set and serious. "As long as I can remember, that's all I've wanted to do. It's who I am. But life is more complicated than that and stuff costs money. So I'm just trying to figure out how to spend as much of my time as possible painting instead of doing data entry, or whatever. You're lucky you've never had to worry about that stuff, Isabella." He says it like he's trying to explain it to me, like I don't know how the world works for the "little people" or something.

I stop and turn to look at him. I don't think he's being nasty. It's just a fact, as far as he can tell. And how would he know any different? Given what he knows about me, it's a fair assumption.

"I don't…" I close my eyes and shake my head in frustration. "This isn't… I didn't grow up here… like this." We're at the gallery now, but we've stopped in the middle of the room to finish our conversation in low voices.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," I say slowly, "I grew up in Washington State, with my dad. I moved here to live with my mother when I was twelve."

"So Phillip Dwyer…"

"He's my step-dad. Except that he legally adopted me when I was thirteen."

"Oh, well, then he's like your father, right?"

I smile at Edward, because he's four years older than me but right now I feel so old and jaded compared to him.

"Not really. For Phil, it was like adopting a puppy. One that somebody else is going to have to feed and walk."

"But he's got to care about you a little to want to adopt you, right?"

I don't know why Edward is taking this so personally, or why he's pressing me to tell him all this shit, but I can't seem to help it and I keep answering his questions.

I sigh before I answer. "I think he was kind of enamored of the_ idea_ of being a father. At a certain point, it was clear that my mom wasn't interested in having another kid, and he wasn't getting any younger. So I was there, and I was quiet and well-behaved and I was a good student. So he just did it, kind of on a whim. He could cross it off his list of things to do before he died. 'Have a kid'. I think it made him feel good, too. Like giving to charity. Plus, I think it made some of the legal stuff easier to deal with. I'm a good tax shelter, or something."

Edward raises his eyebrows and exhales, like he can't imagine adopting a kid on a whim. And I get it. I couldn't imagine it either until it happened to me.

"Still," he says, like he's trying to look on the bright side. "I bet it made your mom happy."

I smirk. "Not really. She tried to talk him out of it."

"Excuse me?" Edward says, like he can't believe what he's hearing.

I take a deep breath and look past him out one of the windows at the park outside, trying to think of a way to explain it so it doesn't sound as bad as it is. I fail.

"She left my dad because she wanted a lot more out of life than she was going to get in some backwater in Washington. Then she spent years trying to land the right husband, and she did it. You can't do much better than Phillip Dwyer, captain of industry, right? Then it became all about keeping him. So she does whatever it takes to stay young and hot, you know? The last thing she needed was a half-grown daughter showing up as a daily reminder of exactly how old she is and where she came from."

"Then why did she bring you here?"

I rub my fingertips between my eyebrows. How the hell did we end up talking about all this stuff? This was not at all what I was hoping for when I was imagining a whole afternoon alone with Edward.

"She didn't. Not willingly, anyway. My dad died, and I didn't have any other family."

"Oh, Jesus. I'm sorry, Isabella. How did he die?"

I shrug. "He was a cop. He thought he was just stopping some speeder, but he was really stopping a car full of meth addicts with a bunch of concealed weapons."

Edward lets out a low hiss through his teeth and then he's silent for a minute.

"So," I continue, "Once they tracked her down…"

"Tracked her down?" Edward's starting to sound mad, although I can't imagine why. It's not his mess to deal with.

"She didn't exactly keep in touch when she left."

"So let me get this straight. She split on you when you were… what?"

"Two."

Edward rolls his eyes and huffs. "Two years old. And you don't see or hear from her until you're twelve and you get sent here to live with her?"

"Pretty much."

"Then she tries to talk your step-dad _out _of adopting you. Wait… did you even _want_ him to adopt you?"

I shake my head. "Nobody asked me. But no, I didn't. It felt… I don't know… disloyal to my dad, or something. But how could I say no, right? I mean, who in their right mind would say no?"

"Isabella, that's just…"

"It's awful. I get it."

"No, it's really, really _sad_," he says gently. And suddenly, I feel like crying. My eyes burn and everything. I turn to the front, so I can try to get myself back under control.

"I don't need anyone's pity, Edward," I finally say. "I mean, look at my life. It's not exactly filled with hardships. All things considered, I'm pretty damned lucky."

I'm still facing front, but I can see him in my periphery, and I can feel him still facing me, his eyes on me. "No, you're not," he murmurs. And I have to swallow hard to keep from crying again.

"Can you just talk to me about art? Distract me or something? I don't like to think about this stuff."

Edward clears his throat and turns forward, too. "Yeah, sure. Come on."

He motions to a painting in the corner and I follow him over to stand in front of it. He starts talking about the color and the composition. At first, he's awkward, but within minutes, his passion for the subject takes over and he's on a roll. I let him carry me along, getting lost in the picture too. Anything's better than where I was.

We wander from one picture to the next. Edward's commentary is all over the place. He's expounding at length on whatever strikes him about each painting. I get the feeling he might have abandoned his planned comments ages ago, but I don't care. This is so much better.

He's really into the colors of things; he says it's because that's what he's been exploring in his latest series. He draws my attention to the way the artists use colors. Like how the brick red placed next to the olive green in one painting make them nearly vibrate against each other. The two colors, because they're complimentary, create energy together that each on its own doesn't have. Once he starts pointing out colors to me, and how they work together, I start seeing what he's talking about everywhere.

"Like that?" I ask him, tentatively, pointing to a painting of an interior. The wall is a lemon yellow and the sofa in front of it is violet blue. "Look how they are together, that yellow and blue."

Edward smiles at me like I've just stumbled onto the mysteries of the universe all on my own.

"Exactly. See?" He leans into me and points at the dark blue splash of the sofa. His other had ghosts across the small of my back and I catch my breath. "See how much red is in that dark blue and how cool that yellow is? That's how he creates visual tension between the two colors."

I take a deep breath to steel myself and I lean back just the tiniest bit. It makes his hand, which had been hovering, barely touching my clothes, press fully against my back. I don't pull away. Neither does he. Neither one of us says anything for a moment; we just keep looking at the painting. Except all I can think of is his hand on my back, and considering how quiet he just got, I'm guessing it's all he's thinking of, too.

After a moment, Edward clears his throat awkwardly. But he doesn't move his hand and he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he keeps talking about the painting. "The artist has done the same thing over here in this corner, with the vase up against the drape. Do you see it?"

I nod. We stand there, looking at the painting, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. I close my eyes and try to inhale this whole moment, so it will never leave me.

"Come on," he finally says. "There are some in the next room that you might like."

We move away, towards the doorway leading to the next gallery. When I'm passing through, Edward's hand moves to my shoulder to guide me to the right. And that's how we are now, in this new place, when we're alone. He touches me. He's decided to let himself do it. It's not lingering or suggestive in any way. It's casual, fleeting, the kind of touching friends might do. But it feels monumental for us— for me.

He nudges me to a cluster of paintings in the corner. They're large portraits of people. They look a little familiar, like I've seen ones like them before.

"Sargent," Edward says. "He's very popular. I thought you might like them."

They are pretty; I can't deny that. The one we stop at is of three women in white dresses perched on and around a sofa. I read the tag to find out the title. _The Wyndham Sisters_. That's why it sounds familiar. Chelsea's family is related to the Wyndhams in some way, and she brags all the time about her fancy English ancestors being painted by Sargent. That hadn't meant all that much to me before, but now I get it. These women were the turn-of-the-century version of us. Well, _them_. Because, let's face it—I'm not the descendant of anyone like this. I'm just some interloper— a pretender on the sidelines.

It's very beautiful. The women are so graceful and pretty, with their pale white skin and delicate fingers; their filmy white dresses and strings of pearls. They're arranged like it's casual, but it's all so perfect. And in the background, half-obscured by the darkness surrounding them, are all the trappings of their astounding wealth, as if the women themselves aren't testament enough to that. I feel uncomfortable looking at them— smothered, like I can't catch a breath. The same way I felt when I looked at _Ophelia_.

"Do you like it?" Edward asks. He's crouched down a little bit to get closer to my ear, and I can nearly feel his breath on my cheek.

"Not really. It's pretty, but… no. I can't… it makes me feel suffocated," I say helplessly. "Sorry, that's a stupid thing to say."

I feel his hand brush against the side of mine, just a tiny touch. "No response to art is ever wrong, Isabella. It makes you feel what it makes you feel. Everyone's reaction is different. That's what makes the experience personal."

"Show me your favorite?" I ask, looking up at him.

_So close_. His face feels close. We're standing side-by-side, our arms almost, but not quite, touching. He smiles, a small half-smile that feels real and personal, meant just for me.

"This way," he says quietly.

Again, as we leave the gallery, he puts a hand lightly on my shoulder to guide me, and this time, he leaves it there. I walk through the museum in a fog, only able to think of his hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his body next to me. We walk through several galleries, passing back through time as the paintings get older around us.

Finally, Edward stops in front of a collection of paintings, all clearly done by the same hand.

"Turner," he says.

They're landscapes, but it's like the landscape is just a tiny framework that he used to hang the real painting on, and the real painting is the color. It's so lush, like you could reach out and wrap your hand around the orange sky.

"Wow, they're…" I trail off, because I don't have the vocabulary to express what I see in these pictures.

"Do you like them?"

"Yeah, I do. A lot."

"Huh," Edward says, like he's puzzled.

"What? Is that wrong? Am I not supposed to like them?"

"No," he laughs, "It's fine. It's just unexpected. Most people who are new to art prefer something like Sargent. They're accessible. Pretty portraits, nice clothes, nothing too out there. But you didn't like those at all, and you _do _like these. It's just interesting, that's all."

I think about that for a minute, trying to decipher how I feel about the two different artists. "I like these because of how wild they are," I finally say, "There might be a few buildings, or people, but look how small they are. They're not even part of the story. They might as well not even be there. All there is that matters is the sky. And that's all it needs. The sky is enough."

Edward doesn't say anything for a minute; he just scowls and looks at the painting.

"You always surprise me, Isabella," he says, his voice low and distracted. He doesn't say it to me, more at the wall, so I don't say anything back. I just look at the painting with him and imagine what it would be like if we were always like this; if this was my life. Walking through galleries and museums at his side, talking about art.

"That's what I like about them, too," he says after a minute. "The use of color, the spatial composition… it's almost abstract while at the same time depicting the most mundane subjects, like a ship in a harbor. It's like… Turner elevates the subject matter just by painting it. It _was_ simple, but in Turner's hands, it's majestic."

"It makes sense that you like these," I say, after a while.

"It does?"

"Mm-hmm. The color. All that stuff you just said about the color defining the subject. It's so much like your work. The color makes me feel the same way."

Edward chuckles a little at my side. "I think that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my work."

"Come on, Edward. I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm just telling you the first thing I noticed. It's not like what I say matters."

"That's _exactly_ why what you say matters." he says, his voice pitching up with excitement. "Your impressions are pure instinct. There couldn't be a more honest reaction to a work of art. That means more to me than all the pretentious art critic reviews in the world."

"Stop," I say, looking at my feet and trying to fight my smile.

"Hey, I mean it," he says softly, all exuberance forgotten. "Don't sell yourself short, Isabella. What you have to say really matters."

I look up to say something to him, but once my eyes meet his, I forget the words. All that's left is that energy again. But now we're so close in this nearly deserted gallery and his hand is still resting on my shoulder. Now I'm not just his student and he's not just my teacher. There's no point in trying to pretend otherwise. We're in some new place, where the playing field has been leveled.

His eyebrows draw together, that intense, almost-angry face I remember from the first day of class. He looks confused. He looks overwhelmed. He looks how I feel.

"What was your name?" he asks.

"What?"

"Before this… before Dwyer. What was your name?"

"Oh… Swan. My last name was Swan."

The corner of his mouth hitches up in satisfaction. "Isabella Swan. Pretty."

"Bella," I whisper.

"What?"

"My dad called me Bella. Back then… back home… everybody called me Bella. But my mother thought Isabella was classier."

"Bella Swan," he murmurs. I close my eyes and exhale at the sound. It's been so, so long since anybody has said that to me.

"Thank you for today, Edward," I say before I can stop myself. But I can't help it. Today, alone with him and his art, has been the best day of my life.

When I open my eyes, he's still looking at me. Now his face is constricted, like he is hurting. "Bella…" he says, low and hoarse. His expression and the tension in his voice send a thrill through my body. I can feel the shift in the air around us, pulling me towards him.

Then the light around us dims. Like, it literally flickers. We both glance up. It flickers again and then fades almost to nothing. My adrenaline spikes as I realize they're about to go out. Then, as soon as the thought has time to take root in my head, the lights come back on, but dimmer than before.

"What was that?" Edward asks the security guard standing in the doorway a few feet away. The guard is looking at the ceiling, too, as if the answer will appear there in the lighting fixtures.

"We're running on generator power now," the guard says. "But I don't know why. The juice from the power grid got cut for some reason."

"A blackout?" Edward says.

The guard shrugs. "Maybe."

"Come on," Edward says, wrapping his hand around my elbow and leading me out of the room.

"What's going on?" I ask him. The museum, which had been so quiet and peaceful all afternoon, is humming with conversation now. Voices are bouncing off the walls, filled with anxiety.

"I have no idea," Edward says, his face grim. "But if it's big enough to put the Met on backup generators, it can't be good." His grip on my arm tightens slightly and I'm almost jogging to keep up with him. The giant entry hall is filled with people now and I can almost feel the tension in the air. Voices are raised, and there's the occasional shout. The security guards are running back and forth, speaking rapidly into walkie-talkies.

"Edward…"

"Let's get you out of here," he says, his eyes shooting around the room.

We push through the people out to the front steps. People on the street in New York always move fast. On any ordinary day, everything runs at double-time. But this is different. People look scared. They're walking so fast that they're almost running. Almost everyone has a cell phone in hand, although I notice no one is talking. I also notice a surprising lack of cars on the street. The few cabs I see are pulled over and off-duty.

"Something's going on," Edward says, "We should get you home. Do you have your cell? Call your mom."

"She won't care…"

"Isabella, just call her." Edward is raking his hands through his hair, making it stand on end, as we pause at the top of the steps of the museum.

"Okay, fine," I huff, and pull my cell out of my bag. I hit the speed dial for my mother. There's a long pause, then a series of unfamiliar beeps and a recording telling me that all circuits are busy and to try my call later. "It says the circuits are busy," I tell Edward when I hang up.

"That's what I was afraid of. My roommate at SVA was here for the blackout and said that nobody's cell worked."

"So this is a blackout?" I ask, looking around us. It's broad daylight, so if the lights have gone out, I wouldn't be able to tell. There's a stoplight a little ahead on Fifth Avenue, but there are trees obscuring it so I can't see if it is working or not.

"I don't know. No one does. And that's when shit gets dangerous. Because everybody's going to panic first and ask questions later."

Now I'm nervous. The free-floating anxiety pulsing through the air around me seems to have infected me and I feel my own adrenaline surge.

People are now pouring out of the front of the museum behind us. Edward pauses for second, peering up the street like he's trying to decide what to do. Then I get shoved hard from behind and I stumble forward a few steps. I teeter on the edge of the marble stair, and then I lose my balance and fall forward. I'm picturing a really long and painful tumble to the bottom, but thankfully, the steps are wide and shallow, so I only slide down a few of them before my momentum slows and I can stop myself with my hands.

Once I'm stopped, I just sit still, trying to get my wits together. I fell hard, and it knocked the air out of me, so drawing a deep breath is difficult. I can't feel any pain yet, but the force of the impact slams through me, and I know it's just a matter of time before it hurts.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, motherfucker?"

Edward's voice is a ferocious snarl, and I almost wouldn't know it's him. I glance back at him, but he's not looking at me. He's staring at the back of the guy who shoved me— the guy who's still running down the steps, oblivious that he hit anybody. Edward is transformed. His fists are clenched at his side, his knuckles are white. His jaw is set and the tendons on his neck are standing out. He stands where he is for just a spilt second, apparently torn about chasing down the guy who hit me. Then he glances down to me and the angry man disappears like smoke.

He's next to me in a second, crouching down, one hand spread across my back, the other on my elbow.

"Jesus, Bella, are you okay? I can't believe that asshole just barreled into you and didn't even stop."

"It's…its okay," I mutter. I still feel shaken and out-of-sorts. My knees hurt where I hit the marble. I sit back on my heels and then slowly slide onto one hip so I can swing my legs out from underneath me. Edward's hands never leave me; he just shifts around me to support me as I move.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm not sure… shit."

As soon as I straighten my legs out, the answer is apparent. My left knee is scraped raw and bloody. It's already starting to sting like crazy.

"Fuck," Edward hisses. "Come on. Let's get you up."

I really, _really_ hate that he's seeing me like this, all clumsy and bruised. A scraped knee is such a little girl injury. My instinct is to shrug it off and tell him I'm fine. But fuck, it hurts. My palms are throbbing from where I hit the ground and my whole body still feels shaky from the impact. So I let him help me to my feet. He slides one arm tightly around my waist, and he keeps his hand on my elbow.

I suck in my breath through my teeth when I put my foot down. A trickle of blood slides down my leg. I lean down fast and shove my white knee sock all the way down so it doesn't get bloody.

"We need to get you cleaned up," Edward says, looking at my knee. "Where's your place?"

"Eighty-seventh and East End Ave."

Edward makes a sound in the back of his throat—it's kind of far. That's what I'm thinking, too. And cabs are suddenly extremely scarce. He runs his hand up into his hair and fists it hard as he stares into the middle distance, thinking.

"Um, you can come clean up at my place," he says, his voice low and hesitant. "It's close."

"It is?"

"Eightieth at Madison."

"Really?" I say, because that's an odd place for Edward to live. I figured the Lower East Side, or maybe Williamsburg. How the hell does he afford it up here?

"Yeah, I'm, um… a friend gave me a deal on the rent."

Of course. That's how. Fucking Mimi Weigert, or somebody like her. I feel sick. But I also can't walk home like this, at least not yet, so I just nod and say nothing. Edward doesn't look at me at all, and I get the feeling he's embarrassed to have admitted even that much. Every time he says something that alludes to his reliance on these mysterious wealthy friends, I see the light in him dim a little bit and I hate them all for it.

"Just lean on me while we get you down the stairs," he says, and the arm around my waist gets tighter. He takes my left hand and pulls it up, looping my arm around his neck. I hook onto him and hang on tight.

We make our way down the steps, one hop at a time, and I block out the nervous anxiety on the street all around us. We still don't know what happened, why the lights went out. But I can't think about that yet, so I just focus on Edward and each step towards his place. Being pressed into his side like this, even under these circumstances, is so overwhelming that it's all I can do to remember to move, and answer when he says something.

There's a cart selling pretzels at the foot of the steps, and the vendor has a little radio strapped to the base of the umbrella, tuned to a news station. A whole crowd of people have gathered around him to listen.

"What's going on?" Edward asks one of the people at the edge of the crowd.

The guy glances back over his shoulder at us. "Fire at the power plant on fourteenth and the F. D. R," he says. "Musta started some kinda chain reaction, because the power is out on the whole east side."

"Did they say for how long?" Edward presses.

The guy shrugs. "Who the fuck knows? Trains aren't running, nobody's fuckin' phone works…" The man waves his hand in disgust.

Edward sighs in frustration and shifts my weight against him more securely.

"Sorry to be such a hassle," I say, embarrassed all over again at being so fragile at the moment.

"You're no hassle at all, Isabella. I'm just sorry I couldn't take that guy to pieces for you."

I smile and duck my head. As much as I love the passionate, artistic Edward, aggressive Edward is kind of appealing, too.

"Still," I say. "It's really nice of you to take care of me."

Edward's face is grim and he shakes his head a little bit. "I don't know how nice I am, Bella," he mutters.

He says it so quietly that I'm not sure if it was even meant for me, so I say nothing. I just hang onto him and let him help me home.

*0*0*

**A/N:** I just can't get over the response to this story. I'm overwhelmed. I'm also sorry I'm not replying to reviews, but real life is a little crazy right now, so it's either reply to reviews or keep writing, and I'm guessing I know which one you'd rather I do!

To answer a question that came up in many reviews, the whole story will be in Bella's pov. I may write some Epov outtakes later if people are interested.

There are links to some of the artwork mentioned on my profile.


	4. The Sky Will Break

**Many thanks to WhatsMyNomdePlume for beta'ing. She makes this so much better.**

*0*0*

We make our painstaking way down to eightieth and over to Madison. It's only three blocks but it takes us the better part of half an hour. Half an hour with Edward's arm around my waist. Half an hour with my arm around his shoulders. Half an hour with our faces so close together that sometimes I feel his hair brush against my cheek when he leans down to say something. The adrenaline from my fall has worn off, leaving me feeling strung out and anxious with a whole new kind of energy.

Every few minutes, Edward makes me try my phone again, or he tries his. Every time, we get the automated message that the circuits are all busy. I feel adrift; like we've just cut ties to the real world and it's just the two of us, alone on this sidewalk, alone in the world.

We reach Edward's place—a very elegant, four-story limestone townhouse. I look up at it, and then at him in surprise.

"I, uh… I rent the basement apartment," he mutters, finally letting go of me to fish out his keys. My side feels cold where he's been pressed for so long. Around the side of the imposing stone steps in the front, there's a much smaller set of stairs cut into the concrete. They lead down to a modest wood door under the entrance stairs. It's so narrow that we don't really fit together, but Edward insists on helping me. I'm kind of glad, because the stinging in my knee has worn off and now it's a dull, throbbing pain.

He unlocks the door and I hop awkwardly after him inside. We're in a narrow, dark hall. Even though I can barely see him, I can hear him breathing. He reaches out and flips the wall switch and then laughs and shakes his head when nothing happens.

"Right. No lights. I forgot. The bathroom's back here."

Then he's back at my side, his arm is sliding around me again. This time, my arm gravitates to his shoulder instinctively. His warmth is comfortable and familiar already.

He helps me down the hall and into a large, open room on the left. As far as I can tell, this is most of the apartment. Up front, by the two high windows that are eye level with the street, I see a futon with rumpled sheets. It's the only nod to domesticity. The rest of the space is devoted to his art. It's dim; the only light is coming from the windows up front and some weak sunlight filtering in from the back of the apartment.

I stop moving in the center of the room just so I can look around. There are canvases lining the room on the floor, propped against the walls. In some places, they are two or three deep. They're all bright and crazy, like the paintings I saw at the gallery. There are a couple of small rolling tables in the middle of the room, the surfaces completely obscured with decimated tubes of paint, messy palettes, and glass jars full of paintbrushes. There are two paint-spattered drop cloths on the floor. There's a large painting in the center of the room on an easel. The style is reminiscent of the ones I saw at the gallery, but the colors aren't as hot. Where those colors were almost incendiary, these are calming, cool, soothing. I like looking at it and the peace it makes me feel.

"Is this what you're working on now?"

"Yeah. You like it?"

"Yes, I do. It feels…" I trail off, looking for the right words.

"What?" he prompts, his voice quiet and close.

"It's like an oasis. It's so beautiful and calm. It looks like your other paintings at the gallery, but the feeling is so different."

"I was in a different place when I painted this one. Thinking about different stuff." We stand there another moment while I look, arm-in-arm, but not awkward. Then Edward clears his throat and looks down. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

In the back of the apartment, on the right is a little galley kitchen and on the left, a tiny bathroom. We barely fit in there at the same time. Edward lowers me onto the lid of the toilet and makes sure I'm settled before he moves away to rummage in the medicine cabinet for first aid supplies. There's one small window, up high, over the shower that bathes everything in blue half-light.

Being so close to him for so long has sent my head and my heart into overdrive. I'm so aware of him that I can hear every breath he lets out, every rustle of his clothes. I lose myself watching the muscles in his forearms flex, watching his shirt pull taut over his shoulders, watching the heavy shadows outline his cheek and jaw.

My wanting is like a tangible presence. I feel like I'll melt or explode if I don't touch him again soon. I don't know how people bear this; this intense longing. And if he doesn't want me, I think I might die. But I think he does want me. Maybe.

"Okay, this will sting, but there's dirt in the wound, so it really needs to be cleaned," Edward says, coming to crouch in front of me. He lays a hand on the side of my wrecked left knee, moving it in front of him, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from gasping out loud, and not because it hurts.

It does sting like a bitch when he dabs the iodine onto my knee, but I bite my lip and focus on his face. His eyes are lowered, and I'm entranced again by his long, dark lashes. I wonder what they'd feel like against my face. He's got a few very light freckles on his cheekbones, and I wonder if they get darker in summer. A heavy thatch of his too-long hair is falling forward, covering his forehead, and I imagine pushing my fingers into it, moving it back off his face entirely. I wonder what he looks like with it shorter, and I wonder if he's ever worn it that way. My fingers curl in around the edge of the toilet seat on either side of me, trying to keep still, trying to keep from touching him.

Edward is chattering, his voice light and casual, trying to distract me.

"I had so many scraped knees when I was a kid that I practically bathed in iodine," he says with a smile. There's a tiny dimple— more of a crease— that forms on the left side of his mouth, where his lips curl up in a crooked smile. "My mother used to tease me that I was going to need skin grafts before I finished growing up."

In spite of my nerves, I chuckle a little. He does, too. "I see a few scars here," he continues, peering closer at my knee. "Do you get a lot of these?"

"I did," I say. Then, after a pause, I say, "…when I was a kid. Not since I grew up, really."

It hangs there between us. He's not smiling anymore. He's staring hard at my knee, like washing out the gravel is the most important thing he's ever done. His dark, thick eyebrows are furrowed together and there's a little line between them that I want to smooth my finger over.

"No," he murmurs, "You aren't really a kid, are you?" It's not even like he's saying it to me. He's saying it to himself. My heart is pounding so hard that I'm surprised he can't hear it, or feel it through my skin. I don't say anything; I just look at his face, at his lowered eyes. He tosses the dirty cotton ball into the little trashcan next to us and opens a gauze pad. He goes to put it over the scrape, then notices that it's still wet.

"I shouldn't cover it up while it's damp," he says absently, still staring at the scrape like he's afraid to look away. And I'm still staring at him, because I can't not. Then he leans forward a little, purses his lips, and blows on my knee. I suck in my breath and hold it, biting my lips to keep back the sounds I want to make. His breath is warm, so warm, but the skin along my legs breaks out with goosebumps anyway. I'm almost shaking.

He blows again, scowling, then decides it's dry enough and carefully lays the gauze pad over it. He rips off a few lengths of surgical tape and gently tapes the edges down, his fingers barely touching me. He has such long, elegant fingers.

Then he sits back a little bit, with a smile, clapping a hand on the outside of each of my knees. "There," he declares happily. "As good as new."

I can't take it any more, and I can't let him stand up and leave. My left hand reaches out and closes over his, which is curled part-way around my knee. The smile evaporates from his face and his eyes meet mine, wide and scared. I tighten my hand over his and his fingers tighten around the backs of my knees in response.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Shit," he whispers.

But he hasn't moved. He's not pulling away. In fact, he's leaning forward a little, like a magnet has pulled him that way. I lean forward, too, my hand still over his, his hands still curled around the backs of my knees. Our faces are only inches apart. When he finally opens his eyes, they're not wide or scared. He looks like he wants to devour me. I'm not sure who moves first. I think we do it together. But the space between us closes, his face moving into mine. An instant later, our mouths meet. Edward lets out a shaky exhale through his nose the second we connect, and it's so full of tension and desire that I can almost feel it scorch my skin.

His hands slide up from my knees, up the sides of my thighs, pushing my skirt aside. I lean forward and he leans forward, up onto his knees. The first moment is tentative, just holding still, lips on lips, but as Edward's fingers find new skin, his mouth moves over mine and everything in me responds at once. First, it's hot and needy. His mouth is soft and supple. He opens, I open. Then it's tongues and I'm gasping and he's moaning. His hands slide higher and pull me forward. My knees spread and he moves between them. I push my fingers into his hair and it feels so, so good. Just like I imagined.

His fingers dig into my thighs; I can feel every fingertip. I want to raise my legs and wrap them around his hips. Instead I just lean in further and kiss him harder. He kisses like no one else on Earth. It's soft sometimes and thorough and absolutely devastating. Then it's hard and desperate, and I feel all that he's been holding back and trying to hide from me. I feel it in every inch of him that's touching me; he wants me. I revel in it and triumph; _he wants me_.

His hand leaves my thigh and reaches up to cup the back of my neck, to angle my head better for what he wants. And I want him to take it all. I hang on and give him all of myself. I let go of his hair and wrap both arms tight around his shoulders, pulling myself in tight against his chest, pressing my breasts against him. When we collide, I gasp against his mouth. My legs are gripping his hips; the rough fabric of his jeans is scraping the sensitive skin of the inside of my thighs. The hand still on my leg grips harder and Edward moans, low in the back of his throat. I lift my knees to wrap my calves around the backs of his thighs. He shudders and I feel it race through his shoulders and into my arms.

When he's had his fill of my mouth, his hand in my hair pulls my head back and I feel his mouth on my neck. I close my eyes and tip back, letting him have what he wants. It's his lips, his tongue, his teeth, all over my neck and moving down.

"Edward…" I don't mean to sigh, but it comes out anyway.

And it shuts him down like a bucket of cold water was thrown over him.

In an instant, he's pushing me back, his eyes shut tight, his mouth open as he gasps for air. I cling to him, pathetic in my neediness, but I can't help it. I grip his shoulders with my hands and try and make him look at me.

"Jesus, I can't," he gasps. With a clumsy lurch, he surges to his feet and steps back, ramming hard against the door frame. I push up to my feet right after him, reaching out for him.

"Yes, you can. It's okay," I plead.

"Fuck, it's_ not_ okay," he says, his voice strained with emotion. He twists away from my hands and staggers back towards the front of his apartment. I catch up to him in the little dim entry hall. The second my hands touch his back, he stops and turns into the wall, resting his forehead against it. He's breathing so hard, dragging in deep, ragged breaths.

"I can't touch you like that, Isabella. It's so wrong," he says in a hollow rasp.

"I want you to. Why is it wrong?" I keep my hand on his shoulder and crouch a little, trying to see his face, but he's keeping it turned down.

"You're in _high school_! I'm your _teacher,_ for fuck's sake! You're too young." He pounds his fists against the wall on either side of his head and it makes me jump.

"You're not my teacher," I say, desperate to keep him from going any further with this train of thought. "Not really." He snorts in a humorless laugh, but I talk over him. My eyes are burning and I think I'll never survive it if he pushes me away now. Now that I know how it can be. "And I'm not too young. I'm eighteen."

He finally straightens up and looks at me. His face is full of pain and anger. He reaches out and grabs my shoulders, but it's not like before. He's holding me there, pinning me down, at arm's length. I reach up and close my hands around his wrists, but he doesn't move and I can't get closer.

"That's still too young. Besides, that's hardly the biggest obstacle, and we both know it."

All I can do is stare back at him. I'm willing the tears not to fall, but I can feel one escape anyway. "What do you mean?" I whisper.

When I start crying, his face finally softens, but he still doesn't bring me closer. There's sorrow there, and regret, I think.

"You're Isabella Dwyer," he says softly. "You're the daughter of Phillip Dwyer."

"So what?" I cry, my voice wavering with tears. My vision is starting to blur. "I don't care about that!"

"But _they_ will. They won't ever let this happen, and you know it."

"It's not up to them. It's up to me and you."

He sighs and his eyes look so sad and tired. He ages ten years right in front of me. "Everything's up to them, Isabella."

He's looking down at the ground again, with that jaded, bitter look he gets when certain things come up. I swallow hard. "No one has to know," I whisper. "I know you have… obligations."

His whole face twists up in disgust, and I immediately regret what I said. "I will _not _do that to you," he says, his voice hard with anger. "Jesus, I can't even talk about that with you."

"You're not doing anything to me, Edward," I insist. "It's me. Please…"

I slide my hands up his arms, desperate for him to let me back in. If I can just touch him again, I think he'll know. This is too big and too strong to deny. His face collapses as his anger fades. His head is tipped forward, his chin practically on his chest. His elbows bend and it's enough. I can move forward, so I do. I move into his arms, my hands finding his sides, pulling him towards me. His arms fall around me and he sighs.

"Please…" I repeat, my mouth almost against his neck. He groans, and then turns his head, just enough so that his mouth connects with mine again. And it's so good all over again, I want to cry in relief. There's no way he can say no to this, and it doesn't seem like he is. His arms that were loosely folded around me tighten. I reach up for his shoulders, pulling myself up to be tall enough. He lifts me until I can wrap my arms around his shoulders, then I just kiss him for all I'm worth. It's so sweet and so deep. He feels all this endless yearning and want too, I'm certain of it.

In a tiny moment when there is air between us, before he takes my mouth from another direction, he whispers my name. "Bella…"

It feels so right when he says it. I moan and hang on tighter. He needs to be mine. I just can't go another step in this world without him. Before, it was all about his beauty and his art and the insane way he made me feel. But after today, it's just so much more. I think he's the only person who will ever be able to fill in the empty parts of me, if he will just _let_ himself do this.

He takes one step and my back is against the wall. His hand is sliding down, past my hip, over my ass, wrapping around the back of my thigh. This is when it will change. He'll lift my legs and wrap them around his hips and press himself against me against this wall. At some point, when that stops being enough, he'll take me back to that futon in the other room and lay me down. He'll take off my stupid uniform and he'll take me. And I want him to. So much. I want every bit of himself that he'll give me. And in return, I'll give him every inch of my body that he wants. He already has my heart. He's had that from the start.

But none of that happens. Instead, my phone rings.

It's muffled by my bag, which is on the floor at my feet where I dropped it when I came in.

Edward draws back and lets me slide down his front. I don't want him to stop. I reach up and take his face in my hands, making him look at me. His eyes are tired.

"You need to answer that," he says.

"No…"

"The phone lines are down, Isabella. You have to."

Then I remember. The blackout. The busy circuits. My phone is working again. Edward takes a step back away from me and I immediately crouch to the floor. I'm not sure if I can keep standing after that anyway. My hands are shaking as I dig through my bag and find the phone. The number on the display is local, but I don't know it. I answer anyway, just before it rolls to voicemail.

"Hello?"

"Isabella." Phil's voice is nothing but a relieved exhale.

"Dad?" It's the first time I've ever called him that without having to remind myself to do it before speaking.

"Where are you? Felix couldn't find you at the school."

I shake my head and close my eyes, trying to focus. School and Felix and the town car… it all feels a million miles away after today. I glance at my phone. It's five o'clock. School's been over for hours.

"Um, I had a class trip. To the museum."

I hear Phil sigh on the other end of the line. He almost sounds… worried. That's an unfamiliar idea— that Phil might actually be worried about where I am right now.

"The city's crazy right now with this blackout. Where are you? I'll send the car to get you."

"No! I mean, I'm almost home."

"You're out on the streets right now? Alone?"

"No, I'm not alone." I let my hair fall forward to shield my face. I hear Edward exhale and pace away from me. "I'm with a friend and I'm nearly home. I don't need the car."

"Are you sure?" he presses. It's kind of nice that he cares. He's almost being parental. I try and imagine where he is right now, in his massive office downtown with the floor-to-ceiling windows, or maybe in a packed conference room. Millions of dollars hang in the balance while he takes the time to call me. It might be the closest I've ever felt to him.

"I'm sure. I'll be home really soon. I'll see you then."

"Oh…" Now he sounds flustered. "I won't be home tonight. There's a lot to do to make up for the time we lost today. But I'm sure your mother will be happy to see you."

And just like that, the warm and fuzzy feeling is over. My mother probably won't even notice that I'm missing. "Sure," I say with a shrug. "See you…soon."

"Take care of yourself, Isabella."

"I will." I always do.

I hang up and stay on the floor for a minute, looking at my phone in my hands.

"We should get going."

"Edward…"

"Just…" He stops and I look up at him. He's pinching the bridge of his nose and his eyes are shut. "We'll talk about it later. Right now, we've got to get you home before they send out a search party."

I let out a humorless laugh. "That's not likely."

But when he reaches a hand down to me, I take it and let him pull me to my feet. He lifts my bag onto my shoulder. He's not looking at me or touching me and dread begins to claw at my stomach. I pull my sock back up, tugging it to cover the bandage so no one will see it and ask questions. Not like anyone pays attention to me that closely, but still.

Edward motions with his hand in front of him and I have no choice but to go. He follows me up and out onto the sidewalk.

"Um… East End Avenue, right?"

I just nod. I stare hard at him, willing him to look back, but he doesn't. He keeps his eyes carefully averted. If I can just reach him, I know I can make it happen. He felt it too, I know he did. I can't stand this wall he's erected between us, but I don't know how to tear it down or scale it.

He walks me back to my building in near silence. He only says something when he needs a direction, or he's cautioning me to watch the traffic. He doesn't touch me again and keeps a full foot between us as we walk. With each step I take closer to home, it's harder to draw a breath. I'm panicking and desperate, but I don't know what to do. Maybe I need to let it be today. Tomorrow, when he sees that I'm serious, that I really want him and I won't change my mind, maybe then he'll talk to me and we can figure out a way to make it work.

I don't care about the problems. I don't care that Phil would rather have him arrested than let him date me. I don't care that he has some questionable connections to wealthy older women. I don't care that I'm still in high school and he's sort of my teacher. None of it matters. My need for him has made me desperate and without shame. I'll wait for him as long as he asks me to— until I go away to school if need be. Or I'll take him any way I can get him now. I'll sneak into his room at night. I'll meet him in a hotel somewhere. Whatever it takes. I just have to make him see it.

When we get to my building, Santiago is out front, a cell phone clamped to his ear, barking orders into it. He turns and sees me and his whole face lets go in relief.

"Miss Dwyer! Thank God!"

"Hey, Santiago. It's fine. I'm okay." My voice sounds unnaturally casual to my ears. Santiago glances at Edward suspiciously. Edward clears his throat and takes a step back.

I spin to face him, trying not to let my panic show on my face.

"Edward…"

"I'll see you in class tomorrow, Isabella," he says. His eyes meet mine for just second, but it's like he's not even there. He's vacant, detached and he's already backing away.

"Okay. Tomorrow," I whisper.

That's all he needs to be released. He turns on his heel and starts walking away fast, back down the sidewalk. His shoulders are hunched and his hands are shoved in his pockets. I swallow back the lump in my throat. I'll see him tomorrow and that will have to be enough. I won't give up and I won't go away. Eventually he'll see that it can be okay. We can make it okay, somehow.

"Miss Dwyer, they've just gotten the back-up generators for the building going, but we're only running one elevator. Follow me and we'll get you right upstairs."

I allow Santiago to take my bag and take my elbow and escort me inside. He deposits me into an elevator and it starts its slow ascent to my home.

*0*0*

It's all I can do to sit through my morning classes the next day. Everybody is still abuzz about the blackout, even though the power's been back on since early yesterday evening. I don't hear any of it, though. I just want to track Edward down. But of course, he won't even be here yet, since he only teaches our class. It's after Physics, and I'm next to useless for that whole lecture.

I don't know what I'll say to him. He's convinced himself that this can't happen, but I'm convinced it has to. My only hope is to get there early, and get him alone. It's always different when it's just us.

Ten minutes before the end of class, I raise my hand and whisper in the teacher's ear that I have my period and need to go to the nurse's office. He asks no questions, just waves me out of class.

I walk as fast as I can through the empty halls without breaking into a full-out run, praying that he'll be there when I get to the classroom. I skid to a stop in front of the closed door. Edward usually leaves it open when he's in there. Taped to the door is a piece of paper.

"_Art Appreciation is cancelled today"_

I'm gasping for breath and trying not to cry as I read and re-read the sign. I won't let myself think it. I won't let this mean what it might mean. Not yet.

I turn on my heel and run back the way I came, but I take a right towards the main office.

"Mrs. Cantwell," I pant, as I burst through the door. "There's a sign on the door at Art Appreciation."

"Yes, Isabella," she says, never looking up from her computer monitor. "Mr. Cullen called in sick. Go on to Study Hall like you usually would."

I nod silently, like she just answered the question I came in here to ask, then I back out of the room. I can't stay here and wonder. I need to see him.

It's still before the bell, so the halls are empty. I race towards the front entrance of Spencer. There's no one to see me leave except the security guard out front. He probably should ask me for some sort of pass, but kids leave early from Spencer all the time, for tutoring, for therapist appointments, for auditions—he's over it, and doesn't even look up as I run past him.

By the time I get to Edward's building— the house where he lives— I'm sweating and breathless, but I don't care. I stumble down the steps to his apartment and knock. When I hear nothing, I pound with my fist. My chest is tightening into a cold, hard ball as I raise my fist and pound again. I think my body already knows what's happened, even if my mind can't let it in yet.

"Can I help you with something?"

I look up and see a woman on the main steps above my head. I step back to look at her. She's in her early forties, another impeccably preserved Upper East Side society wife. I'm drowning in them. She's pretty enough, but all tight and hard and overly-finished.

Her eyes drop slowly down my body and then back up. Her expression is passive, but her gaze is hostile. I resist the urge to tug down my pleated plaid skirt. I feel like a foolish little girl coming here like this. I _look_ like a foolish little girl. My throat constricts and I have to swallow to speak.

"Um, I'm looking for Edward Cullen."

She says nothing for a long moment; she just looks at me. It makes me want to squirm, but I hold still, my hands gripping the strap on my bag for dear life.

"He's gone," she finally says, clipping the words short.

"Gone?" I repeat, hating how soft and fragile my voice sounds.

"He packed up his stuff in the middle of the night and took off. No warning. Although," she sniffs delicately and finally looks away. "I suppose he didn't owe me any warning."

I hate what she's implying. I hate what this probably was.

"Did he say when he's coming back?" I make myself ask.

Then she laughs, and it's a harsh, humorless sound. It makes me feel naïve and young. "Oh, he won't be back. His kind never are."

I want to take her apart for saying that about him, but I can't. I can't even breathe. _Gone._ Gone and not coming back. He left. He's gone.

I feel the shaking start to take over and I know I need to get out of here.

"Thank you," I whisper, backing away. She shrugs, already bored with me, and retreats back up her stairs, to the beautiful rooms above, where she's probably got some contractor or massage therapist all lined up to fill the hole Edward has left.

I don't know how long it takes me to get back to Spencer. I don't remember walking. But suddenly I'm there in front of the building, staring up at the carved stone entryway. Emmett is leaning against the door frame, smoking. In my fog, I wonder how he gets away with that in the middle of a school day, but I can't find the words or the will to ask him.

"Hey Iss," he raises a hand in greeting. I say nothing. I can only stand there and not fall down. Emmett squints at me. "What's up?"

I shake my head. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. My open mouth wants to scream and wail, but I'm silent. Grief is starting to take me over and I don't know what to do.

"Rose," I whisper. That's right. That's why I came. I'm in trouble and I need my best friend.

Emmett shrugs. "I don't think she's here today. She was out kind of late last night. Hey, you okay?" He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder, crouching to look into my face.

No. I'm not okay. I'll never be okay again. I don't know what to say. I need help. Someone. But Rose isn't here and Emmett is no help.

"Hey, what's going on?"

I see Alice's little face peering under Emmett's raised arm.

"Alice," I whisper. "He's gone."

She steps forward, skirting Emmett. Her hands come up and close around my shoulders. "I know. Word is out. He quit."

I gasp and double over. Emmett steps forward, but Alice waves him off. "It's okay," she tells him. "I got this."

Emmett looks relieved and retreats. Now it's just me and Alice.

"Alice, I don't…"

"Shhh, sweetie," she's pulling me back up, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. "Just hold it together for a little bit. Not here. Is anybody home at your place?"

I shake my head. My eyes are burning. Alice just nods and steers me to the street to hail a cab.

Half an hour later, we're in my room, on my bed. Alice still has her arms around me. It's there that I finally let it go. I cry. I wail. I scream. My heart cracks wide open, and I know it won't ever be the same again.

Ages later, Alice asks me to tell her. It takes me the better part of an hour to get through it, as I stop and give in to tears every few minutes. But I tell her all of it, all about me and Edward, about our instant attraction, about all the little moments between us that made me feel like he wanted me too, leading up to yesterday, when it was painfully clear that he did. I also tell her about Mimi Weigert and the woman at the townhouse. I tell her what I suspect about Edward and these rich women. Alice nearly hisses in anger.

"Alice, how can he just walk away because I'm a few years too young right now? In a couple of years, no one would even blink." My voice is a raw rasp from all the crying I've done.

"Iss," she says gently, smoothing her little hands over my hair. "I don't think your age had a whole lot to do with it."

"Then why?"

"Mimi Weigert. Or whoever. They obviously help him out. He can't have you and still keep them happy."

I close my eyes and wince at her words, remembering how I begged him, how I promised him that we could keep it a secret for exactly that reason. Alice's clear-headed reasoning is like a fist to my gut. He couldn't say no to the ease they offered. I wasn't enough of an enticement for him to risk their displeasure. My heart breaks in ways I could never imagine and I break down again.

Alice says nothing. She holds me on my bed and whispers soothing little words to me and strokes my hair as I cry and cry and cry.


	5. Ghost

**Thanks to the lovely WhatsMyNomDePlume for beta'ing. If you're not already reading her story, **_**Once More, With Feeling**_**, quit reading this now and go read that instead. I adore it.**

*0*0*

How I made it through the last three weeks of school remains a mystery to me. When I look back on it, I remember next to nothing. My G.P.A. was already high, and that's what allowed me to scrape out of school at all.

The day after Edward leaves, Rose comes over, tipped off by Emmett that I was upset about something. I finally confess everything to her. She doesn't get it. She doesn't understand how I can be so devastated over losing a guy that I "kissed once or twice", especially since he's my teacher, which she thinks is "just gross". That's pretty much the final nail in the coffin of our friendship. It's not acrimonious or bitter, but that's when I know we've just grown too far apart, and she seems to know it too. From then on, we're more like friendly acquaintances.

Alice is the one that gets me through it. She steps in to fill the void left by Rose, surrounding me with her support and care. She's at my house all the time, keeping me from curling into a traumatized little ball. My mother notices her persistent presence, but instead of being annoyed, she's delighted. Alice is that rare creature that even my mother, with all her aspirations and efforts, will never be: Old Money. Alice's family didn't acquire the money from a venture capital corporation like Phil did; they didn't earn it as investment bankers like the parents of so many of our classmates. The Brandons _inherited_ it. Alice's money goes back generations. In fact, it's a little bit unusual that Alice even goes to Spencer. Her kind usually get educated by tutors. But Alice's mother is too busy being a wastrel in Europe to organize the raising of Alice, so she's been handed from one nanny to another, plopped in the most expensive prep school in Manhattan and left to fend for herself.

Her pedigree is enough to make her pure gold in my mother's eyes. Renee would be happy to have Alice move right in, and she encourages me to spend all the time with her that I want. That's why, when Alice tells me she's going to Europe for the summer after graduation and she wants me to go with her, my mother doesn't bat an eye before agreeing. Besides, my mother will have decamped to our place in the Hamptons by then, so it's not like she'd even notice I wasn't around. It's sorry consolation, but at least Alice and I have each other.

After graduation, I spend a miserable two weeks in Manhattan before we leave for our trip. I go to the Met every day and wander the galleries until closing. It's the place, aside from his apartment, where I felt the closest to Edward. When I'm there, I can close my eyes and imagine that he's just in the next gallery, looking at a painting, and when I open my eyes, he'll be there next to me, sounding all excited about the color of something. He never is, of course. Gone means gone and he really is. I don't see him. I don't hear about him. Every trace is wiped clean.

I take one good thing away from all my restless hours wandering the museum; I find clarity on _one_ issue. When I accepted my admission to Brown, my major was listed as "undecided". I had vague ideas about English or maybe just Liberal Arts. It didn't really matter what I majored in, since I wasn't expected to actually do anything with my degree. But by the time I'm packing for Europe with Alice, I've notified Brown of my choice of major: Art History. Maybe I can't have Edward, but I can have what he left behind. I can have the art. So that's what I'll take.

Alice always seems to know just what I need. She's endlessly patient, giving me plenty of time to hurt. But when she feels I've done enough of that, she gently, but firmly, shows me how to close it up, put it away and move forward. I'm not okay. It's too recent and too painful for that to be true. But at Alice's insistence, I get up and dust myself off.

Europe is not the hedonistic free-for-all I was braced for. It's mostly just me and Alice hanging out in nice cities. We go shopping in pretty little boutiques for Alice; we visit endless museums for me. She's so, so good to me, so I try hard to be there for her. I keep up my end of the conversation over dinner, I lay on the bed with her and pour through guidebooks, planning our days. I do anything I can to thank her for putting me back together, even if I'm still full of cracks and so fragile. After a month in Europe, Alice doesn't have to be perpetually braced to comfort me through another breakdown and I can get through a day without tears.

It's only at night, when I'm back in my hotel room alone, in bed with the lights off, that I let myself dwell on it. And then I let it flood me. I throw open my arms and welcome Edward's memory back in. I beg it to come and stay. Because as much as this is killing me, I never want to forget a thing. I go back over everything endlessly, committing it to memory. I twist in my sheets and press my eyes closed and just _remember_ him. I want to remember his hair and his shoulders, his few faint freckles and his long dark eyelashes. I want to remember his art and his words and his smile. I want to remember the shape of his fingers, the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth. I don't want to ever forget. I won't.

We go to Dublin and Alice likes it so much that we end up spending the last weeks of our summer there. We fall into a rhythm I can handle. We sleep late and take tiny day trips in the afternoon or just sit in a park and read. We eat long, slow dinners and then settle in at the pub across the street from our hotel until we're warm and comfortably drunk, before wandering back to our beds in the early morning.

I try not to think too much; I just float through my days in Dublin with Alice. We make friends with the bartender at the pub, Siobhan. She's wry and funny. She's endlessly amused by Alice, and Alice is happy to entertain her. I'm happy just to listen to their chatter. Most nights, Siobhan's brother, Riley, stops by after he gets off work and we make friends with him too. I don't want to be so social, but I also don't want to disappoint Alice with my sorrow, so I try. Mostly, I pull it off. One night, just before we're due to fly home, I excuse myself to go to bed early. Riley slides off his barstool and says he'll walk me across the street to the hotel. I want to protest, but Alice is looking at me hard and I don't feel like I can. So I let him walk me across the street. I respond to all his casual conversation when he lingers at the door. And when he steps forward and lowers his face to mine, I hold still and let him kiss me.

That's when I know that Edward has broken something in me. I folded him away in a box inside me, but I'm all tangled up with him in there, and now I can't get loose. In time, I may move forward, but the best part of me will stay in that box, wrapped around Edward's ghost.

Riley strokes my hair and smiles and says he'll see me tomorrow. I know I should say it back. He's nice and really cute and with his accent, I could listen to him talk forever. But I just can't be what he wants. So I just smile back and say goodnight.

The next day, I convince Alice to fly home early.

Things get better when I start Brown in September. Phil wants to buy me a condo in Providence, but I insist on the dorms. My roommate is a tall, willowy girl named Charlotte, majoring in British Literature. She's serene and confident and knows so many people when she gets there that it's like she's been there for a year already. I know no one, but that seems better somehow. There's less pressure. I don't have to be anything for anyone. For a while, I live just for me.

I throw myself into my classes and on the weekends, Alice and I visit each other, either in Providence, or in Bennington, where she goes. She's still my closest friend, but she does a respectable job of building a social life for herself in college. She keeps at me until I manage to do it for myself, too.

Mostly my friends are people from my major. We go to bars and drink just enough beer to be considered "cutting loose", but not enough to be considered "debauched". We're Art History majors, after all. There are a few girls that I study with. We go for coffee after class and drill each other on the dates of artworks before tests. Sometimes we have dinner together; a calm, intellectual version of a girl's night out. It's just enough to make me feel connected and human.

I can hardly admit it to myself, but for the first year, I look for Edward constantly. I half-expect him to come find me, now that I'm away from my family and at college. Every time I see a boy about the same height, or with hair the same color, my heart misses a beat. When I realize it's not him, it breaks a little more. Going home to New York for the weekends is even harder because I suspect he's out there somewhere in the vast anonymous city. I spend the breaks holding my breath, hoping to run into him around every corner and dreading it at the same time. It doesn't matter, though, because it never happens. He's simply gone, erased from my life like he was never even there.

The distance from my mother the first year is so relaxing that I spend most of the breaks at school, just to stay out of New York; away from her and away from the terrible lack of Edward. Renee doesn't remark on my absence at all, although Phil seems mildly disappointed. I've never had much of a relationship with Phil, but once I go to college, he makes half-hearted and mostly unsuccessful attempts at doing the things he thinks a college parent might do. For Christmas my freshman year, he has a sleek, silver top-of-the-line Volvo delivered to campus for me. Phil has forgotten that I can't drive, if he ever knew.

In the spring, when a guy from my Contemporary Art II class asks me out for coffee, I listen to Alice's voice in my head and I say yes. Alice is so happy when I tell her about it on the phone that I say yes again when he calls to ask me out to dinner. We date for three months before he tells me that he feels like I never let him in. He's right, of course. No one will ever get in again, not really. But I don't tell him that part. We break up and I let him go with hardly a shrug.

This is the way I pass the next four years.

All in all, I'm alright. Not good. My pathetic dating history is testament to just how screwed up I am. But I can get up and move through my day without reminding myself to do it. I participate and study hard at school. There are even infrequent and fleeting moments when I actually enjoy myself.

Through it all, art is the only thing that ever brings me any real peace. It's a pale substitution for Edward himself. But if he had to leave me with a legacy in place of himself, this is the best one I could have asked for. At first, art is just a way for me to still feel close to him, but after a year or so, it's a way for me to feel close to myself. I'm never as happy as I am when I'm strolling through a gallery alone. Every time I set foot in a museum, no matter where or how big or small, I close my eyes and exhale, finally at ease. I learn to lose myself and my little present-day worries in the brushstrokes and luminous layers of paint from the past. I fill my head up with painters and movements, styles and artistic milestones. It's consuming and peaceful.

Part-way through my degree, I show some interest in art conservation, but as soon as my mother understands that it often involves dust masks and gloves and actually working with my hands, I am forcefully dissuaded from pursuing that course. My degree ends up being in the History of Art and Architecture. I graduate summa cum laude because of all the extra coursework I've done and my exceptionally high G.P.A..

After graduation, I go back to New York. I'm a bit at loose ends as to what I want to do with myself. I'm considering attending graduate school, but Phil and Renee do their best to discourage me on that front. I still might go anyway, but Alice is taking some time off, and she's talking about going to Europe again. Maybe that's what I want. Maybe it's what I need. Maybe I need a job. I don't know.

I have no solid plans though, so I put my things into storage and go back to the apartment on East End Avenue. I figure Phil will be as busy as always and my mother will be in the Hamptons, so I'll have plenty of quiet time over the summer to make plans.

Besides, I've missed the New York museums. I'm looking forward to a few slow months prowling galleries alone. Alice never understands how I can spend so many hours a day alone looking at paintings. The two of us visiting a museum together is a comedy of contrasts. I stand in front of a painting in silence, studying and absorbing. Alice stands at my side for forty seconds, head cocked to the side. Then her patience with quiet solitude is exhausted and she needs to talk to someone. She knows better than to try and draw me out, so she talks to security guards, wandering retirees, mothers pushing strollers—anybody who has the misfortune to pause near us long enough for her to notice. Suffice it to say, it's rare that I take her with me. She's happier to just meet me for drinks afterwards anyway, so that's our routine.

It's the end of my first week back in New York. I've wasted away an afternoon at the Whitney, looking at the O'Keefe exhibit. I have that slightly addled, distracted feeling I always have after spending a day alone in a museum. It makes me lost in my own head—in the good parts of my own head. That's why I'm startled when I come in and find two uniformed women in our kitchen, hard at work cooking something. Neither one of them glances up at my arrival, which makes me think they're supposed to be here. They look comfortable and they move with purpose. I seem to be the only one caught out.

"Isabella! We'd wondered where you'd gotten to today!"

Phil's striding down the open stairs towards me. I so rarely encounter him here that I don't even respond at first. He's still in his suit from the office, but his tie is gone and his shirt is open at the neck. It's shockingly casual for Phil. He's in his mid-fifties now, but he still looks good, tanned and fit, his light brown hair only barely sprinkled with silver. He's still a handsome man. Add to that his wealth and it's no wonder my mother is so desperate to stay young forever. The women throwing themselves at Phil must be legion.

"You're not usually home now," I say, stating the very obvious.

"We're having a guest for dinner tonight," he says, as if this explains everything. It doesn't explain anything. Ordinarily he wouldn't show up until the guests were pulling up downstairs. At my blank face, he continues. "An important guest. You'll join us?"

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. That's new. They never want me here for business dinners.

"I'm assured the food will be superb," he says with a smile, trying to entice me. He winks broadly at the two women catering the dinner in our kitchen. One of them shoots him a harried but pleasant smile. Phil chuckles a little at his own attempt at a joke. I like Phil like this, how he rarely ever is.

"Okay," I say. "Sure. What time?"

"Drinks at seven," Phil says. Then he claps me on the shoulder, the kind of bracing approval he'd give one of his junior executives. We stand there another moment with nothing to say to each other. It amazes me that I've known Phil for ten years now—he's legally my father—and we can never manage to have a verbal exchange that isn't awkward. It's like Phil only has one conversational setting and it's "corporate".

I give him a tight smile and shift my weight. "Well, I'm just going to go call… um, Rose," I say, jerking my thumb towards the stairs.

"Good, good," Phil says. "Tell her I said 'hello'."

"I will," I say. I'm pretty sure Phil has never met Rose, although he knows her father.

I make my escape up to my room and fall on my bed. I debate whether or not to really call Rose, then decide to just go for it. Rose left for college along with Alice and me, but she spent winter break of her freshman year in St. Moritz, and when it was time to go back to cold, snowy New Haven, Yale stopped holding any enticement for her. She never went back and has spent most of the past four years wandering around Europe with a whole host of young European jet-setters, partying and spending down her inheritance. She's impossible to get on the phone and she never returns messages. But still, I try to maintain some kind of contact with her.

I dial and I'm shocked when she picks up.

"Isabella?"

"Rose! How are you? It's been ages."

"Oh, I know. I'm sorry. I'm the worst friend in the world. I'm so scatter-brained, I always forget to call people back." Her voice is too high and fast, and I suspect she's on something.

"It's okay. How is…where are you again? Italy?"

"No, I'm in Luxembourg now, staying with some friends. It's amazing here. Isabella, you have to come!"

I laugh a little as I think about how very unlikely that is. But I say, "Maybe. Alice wants to go to Europe this summer. Maybe we can all spend some time together."

"That would be so brilliant! We'll hole up in some fabulous little hotel, just us girls."

"Sounds great," I say, even as I know it will never happen. If Alice and I do end up in Europe, we'll call Rose and she'll have plans, or be in some remote mountaintop ski resort and unreachable. We've been doing this for years now. "Hey, you ever think about coming back to the states for a while?"

Rose pauses for a minute before she answers. "Why would I do that?"

I snicker. "I don't know, Rose. Maybe because you live here?"

She sighs. "There's absolutely nothing to do in America. I'm having fun here."

"And you're just going to… what? Have fun? Forever?"

She laughs, light and empty. "That's the plan, if I can manage it. Listen, Iss, I have to go. There are some people coming over and…"

"No problem. Go, go. I miss you."

She sighs again. "I miss you, too. Come visit."

"I'll try."

We hang up and I lay there for a minute, thinking about Rose. Is that really the answer? Am I trying too hard to find a purpose? Am I being ridiculous thinking I need to figure out what to do with my life? Should I just go to Europe with Rose and lose myself in busy nothingness?

Plenty of my classmates from high school have done just that, but it just doesn't feel right. For one thing, enjoying myself isn't that easy. Not since…

Besides, whenever I think of spending my life like that, I picture my dad's disapproving face. My _real_ dad. He'd never understand Rose's lifestyle and he'd understand me living it even less. It may be stupid to live for the approval of a dead man, but sometimes I think that's just what I'm trying to do. I'm still trying to grow up into the girl I would have been if none of this had ever happened. The problem is, there's no place for that girl in this world.

I get changed into a charcoal-gray sleeveless sheath dress and present myself downstairs in the dining room promptly at seven. The table is beautifully decorated with orange lilies in a huge vase and cream votive candles flickering in glass holders. My mother and Phil are already there, and so is their guest.

He's younger than I was expecting, maybe late twenties. I was expecting someone closer to Phil's age. Like Phil, he's in a dark suit with his black hair swept neatly off his face. He's got pale, clear skin, light eyes, and angular features. For just a second, his pale skin and high cheekbones remind me of… but I close my eyes and shake that off. When I stop in the doorway, everyone pivots to look, like they've been waiting for me.

"Ah, Isabella!" Phil says, all smiles. He extends an arm, beckoning me into the room. I cross to stand near him. "This is Alec Winters. Alec, my daughter, Isabella."

Phil turns away to get me a glass of wine and I extend my hand to Alec. He shakes it with the firm grip I'm used to among Phil's business friends. Alec smiles at me and I take another second to actually make eye contact with him. He's trying hard to make eye contact with me. He's good-looking in a junior-executive kind of way. His smile and the way he extends our handshake for an extra beat tells me he thinks I'm good-looking, too.

Dinner is the usual boring corporate affair. I have nothing to contribute, so I'm mostly quiet at first. I surmise from Phil and Alec's conversations that Alec is some hot-shot young exec at another venture capital firm. I can sense Phil's eagerness, and it's hard to miss the way Renee is bending over backwards to flatter him, so it doesn't take me long to figure it out. Phil's trying to lure him away from his current company. That's why the intimate family dinner at home. They're trying to make him feel special and wanted.

The wine loosens everyone up and gradually, the conversation shifts away from corporate deals.

"Isabella," Alec says, surprising me. No one has spoken to me for a while. "Phil tells me you just graduated from Brown?"

"Yes, last month."

"What's your degree in?" He's looking at me over the rim of his wine glass. His light eyes have turned out to be blue. Bright blue and quite intense.

"The history of Art and Architecture," I say, fidgeting with my napkin in my lap a little.

"What are your plans next?"

"Well, I'm still thinking about graduate school, but I'm taking a little time off. I thought I might look for a job…"

"You know there's no need for you to rush into anything just yet, Isabella," Renee says, giving me a hard look, even though her tone of voice is sweet. Apparently the word 'job' is now taboo too. I sigh.

"I guess I'm just looking for something to keep me interested until I decide what I want to do about school."

"That's very commendable," Alec says politely. Like it's a noble effort that I might actually want to work for a living.

He asks me a few more questions about how I liked Brown and which of my classes were my favorites. I answer and we have a nice, easy little back and forth for a while. He smiles at me a lot. His teeth are bright white and he gets a little dimple on his left cheek sometimes. I sneak glances at Phil and Renee, surprised to see that they seem in no hurry to interrupt. I ask Alec a few of my own polite questions. He grew up in Connecticut and went to Cornell. He likes living in New York, but misses having a backyard, which I find mildly endearing. It's a tiny personal detail that I wouldn't have expected about him.

As the evening winds down, all three of us walk Alec to the door. I hang back as he says his goodbyes to Phil and Renee. Then he steps towards me, hand extended. I take it to shake and he wraps his other hand around mine, holding it encased in his.

"It was really nice to meet you, Isabella," he says. His attention is nice. _He's_ nice.

"You too," I murmur, letting myself smile back at him a little.

"I hope I see you again soon," he says, with a slightly lopsided smile. The way his mouth hitches up higher in one corner, combined with his dimple makes my heart hurt and it makes me feel like I know him better than I do.

"I look forward to it," I say, trotting out one of my many practiced pleasantries, but trying to make it sound genuine. His hands squeeze mine briefly before he releases it and turns away.

As soon as the elevator door closes behind him, I retreat to my room, I figure Phil and Renee will conduct an epic post-mortem about the success of the dinner, and I don't want to hear it.

The next day, I'm waiting on my coffee in Starbucks before heading over to the Met to see an exhibit of Goya's pencil sketches. They call my name with my drink just as my phone rings. I try to juggle the coffee and the phone, and almost lose both before I get myself straightened out.

"Hello?"

"Isabella?"

"Yes?" I snap.

"Um… this is Alec Winters. Is this a bad time?"

"Oh." His name and his voice, now that I recognize it, send a flutter of surprise through me. He's calling me. I didn't expect this. "Um, no. I'm just in the middle of scalding myself with coffee, but it's all good."

I hear Alec chuckle through the line. "Well, it seems like I might have called at just the right moment, since you've just spilled your coffee and I'm calling to see if you wanted to grab some."

I pause for a minute, digesting that. He called me. Which means he must have called Phil to get my number. So Phil knows he's asking me out and doesn't mind, I guess. Do _I _mind? He seems nice enough. Harmless. Plus, he was bold enough to ask Phillip Dwyer for his daughter's phone number, which shows some initiative. I have to admit, it's a little flattering. And it's not like I'm doing anything better. This is how I've approached every interaction with the opposite sex since…

As Edward's name and face float through my mind _again_, I curse silently. Damn him for never leaving. Damn him for moving into my head and heart so thoroughly that even four years later, I can't get him out. Hell, even the tiny flicker of attraction I'd felt towards Alec was for his features that remind me of Edward. Will it always be this way? Will he always be wrapped around me this way even when he's not here? It makes me feel angry and spiteful. After all, he walked away without a backwards glance. I must be nothing more than an awkward memory for him now, if he remembers me at all.

"Yes, I'd love to," I hear myself saying to Alec. "That sounds great. Just name the day."

We make plans to meet the next day during Alec's lunch hour, which suits me fine. There's less pressure if he has to go back to work. A few weeks later, after half a dozen dinner dates and a few mildly steamy goodnight kisses, he tells me that he's accepted Phil's offer and he's joining The Dwyer Fund. That's when I get it._ I_ was part of the offer. When Phil asked me to be at dinner, when they backed off and let Alec strike up a conversation with me, when Phil passed along my number without question… I was sweetening whatever deal Phil was offering Alec. Yes, the job and the money, but also a shot at the CEO's daughter.

I'm pissed for about a day, but in the end, I can't hold it against Alec. He didn't know that was their plan. It's not like I was written into the contract or something. Phil and my mother just presented him with an opportunity to meet me and take his shot at me, if he was interested. The rest, Alec did on his own. It means my mother and Phil think of me as nothing more than an asset to be leveraged, when they think of me at all. But by this point in my life, I hardly expect anything more from them. Besides, I do like Alec. He's busy and distracted a lot, but when he's focused on me, he's interested enough and he's kind.

So I keep dating him. Everyone's happiness with this arrangement is palpable. Even Alice decides he's nice, the one time she meets him. Alec works long hours, so there aren't a lot of options for socializing. But she thinks it's good that I'm finally semi-serious about someone, _anyone_. It's so easy to just float along in everyone's approval and good-wishes. I think it's the happiest my mother has ever been around me. Everyone likes him; everyone likes _us. _We're so good together; everyone says so. The path of least resistance opens before me into a sweeping vista. I've always felt so off-kilter and lost in this world. With Alec, I seem to finally have a place, and a purpose. He makes it all make sense. He makes me belong.

By September, we're engaged.

*0*0*

**A/N:** I like to recc stories sometimes in my A/N's. If you're not interested, feel free to skip. I just like to share stories I'm enthusiastic about.

**The Tour by WutheringBites:** Bored tour guide Bella Swan is weary of dealing with the rich & obnoxious. That is, until Edward Cullen appears, nutty family in tow, to end her stupor. Can he charm Bella into breaking the rules while dealing with crazies in ten countries?

I smile like crazy through every update of this story.

**Branching Inward by LifeintheSnow**: He's a brilliant, sensual, tactile artist with a huge personality and love for life...at least, he used to be. She's a shrewd historian, content to observe from a distance...until now. At Newcoven College in Clearwater, OH, no secret is safe. All Human.

Lovely, mature and romantic.


	6. Achilles

**Many thanks to WhatsMyNomdePlume, who betas this for me. But I mess around with it forever after she sends it back, so the mistakes are all mine.**

*0*0*

"The Dwyer Fund. How may I help you?" Irina's voice is the polished ice it always is.

"Alec Winters, please," I say politely.

There's a tiny pause and then, "May I ask who's calling?" Which is bullshit, because Irina knows exactly who I am. She does this to me every time I call. I'm tempted to rat her out to Alec, but that's petty, so I swallow my irritation.

"Isabella _Dwyer_," I say slowly, drawing out my last name a little bit, reminding her that she says it every time she answers the phone because… oh, yeah. My father _owns_ the company.

"Please hold, Miss Dwyer," she says, without missing a beat. I can't stand her.

"Isabella?" Alec says a second later. The way the phone clicked, I know he's on another call, "Give me a minute to wrap this up."

"Mm-hmm," I say, but he's gone before I finish. I wait and flip through the stack of mail on the table in the entry way. I'm loitering here before I go upstairs and get changed on the off-chance that Alec might be free for dinner. He rarely is, but I figure I should check. It's the right thing to do.

I wait. And wait some more. There's a large manila envelope addressed to me and I pull it free from the pile. I wait some more.

Ten minutes later, Alec is back on the line. "Sorry, babe, but that was London and it's the end of their day there and…"

"It's fine," I sigh, because it is. I probably should feel more bothered than I do. "I was just calling about dinner."

Alec sighs, "Tonight's just impossible, babe. We're wrapping up this deal and…"

"It's okay," I cut him off, because I knew what the answer would be, and the explanation doesn't really interest me. "That's what I'd guessed. It's really fine."

Alec sighs. "You're too good for me, you know that, right?"

I laugh politely. He always says that. "Don't work too hard," I say, which is pointless, because he will. Working hard is Alec's reason for living.

"I sent you something. Did you get it?"

"Is it an envelope?" I ask, turning it over in my hand. I frown because the return address is from Sotheby's.

"Yes. Did you open it yet?"

"I will now," I say, tearing the top. I slide out the Fall auction catalogue. "I don't think this is yours. It's just an auction catalogue from Sotheby's. I must have gotten on their mailing list."

Alec chuckles. "No, that's it. I had them send it."

"Why?"

"I want you to pick something out. For your birthday. And, you know, as an engagement present. I know how much you like your art."

"Alec, that's…" I'm starting to protest that it's far too extravagant, even as I'm flipping through the catalogue. Then the page falls open and what I see there stops my protesting. "That's very sweet of you, Alec," I say, as my eyes drink it in.

"Anything to make you happy, babe. Besides, my guy tells me it's a great investment. So, you know… win, win."

"Right," I mumble. "Win."

"Listen, babe, I gotta go. I have this thing—"

"It's fine. Talk to you soon."

I hang up and skim my fingers across the page. _Turner._

*0*0*

I suppose I should feel bad about choosing a work because it reminds me of Edward. But the second I see the picture in the catalogue, I know I have to have it. I want to look at it every day. I want to have this one secret thing that's just mine.

Besides, it's not like Alec is connected to it in any personal way. I emailed him with the piece I wanted, and he called an agent to do the bidding. The representatives from Sotheby's delivered it to our apartment. Alec didn't even know or care what he'd bought until I texted him a picture of it. He said it looked "nice", and that his advisor had told him it was an excellent investment. It makes me wonder what he would have done if I picked one that wasn't expected to appreciate so much in value.

As Turners go, it's not a great work. It's just a small landscape study in pencil and watercolor. It has none of the tactile, vibrant color that his large oil canvases have. But the sky still has that open, sweeping vastness. The countryside still has that untamed wildness I love about Turner. The signs of humanity are tiny and insignificant in the face of Turner's unbound nature. Simply put, it makes me feel the same thing that Edward's favorite Turner did that day in the Met four years ago.

I hang it by my bed and look at it every night as I fall asleep.

*0*0*

I am laying across my bed, reading, when my phone rings. I fish it off the bedside table and answer without looking.

"Hello?"

"Iss, it's Alice."

"Hey, sweetie. What's up?"

"I know you were looking for something to tide you over until you decide about school…"

I laugh. "Alice, have you been job-hunting for me?" It's not something I'd put past her.

"No, no, nothing like that. It's not even a job. Well, it's a volunteer position with the Van Lewen Foundation for the Arts? You know, they promote…well, art?"

"I know it. Who'd you hear this from?"

"Renata Reynolds. Remember her from Spencer? I ran into her at Bergdorf's and her mother is on the board. We were talking about getting out of college, and when I mentioned your major, she brought it up. Are you interested?"

A volunteer position with a foundation. It's a far cry from conservation, but it also won't create too many waves. I'd probably be working with a bunch of other wealthy women who didn't need to work, and it's philanthropy. Phil's very big on giving back. It's what the rich are supposed to do.

"Yeah, I'm really interested," I tell her.

"Great. I'll pass your contact info onto Renata and she can let her mother know. I bet it will be really good for you, Bella."

I sigh when I hear the concern in her voice. After all these years, she still feels the need to fix me. I hate that sometimes, I feel like I still need it.

"I'm sure it will," I tell her.

*0*0*

I meet Margaret Nielsen for tea at her townhouse. She runs the Van Lewen Foundation, and since this is a volunteer position and not an actual job, she decides an informal meeting at her home is more appropriate.

Margaret is in her seventies, tall and slender, with a sharp bob of silver hair. When she greets me at the door, she's in an immaculate navy St. John suit with a chunky coil of pearls around her neck. Her appearance is formidable, but the woman herself is lovely. Her manners are formal, but she's nice. I like her. She seems to like me, too.

She heads the Foundation, but there are several paid staff members to take care of the day-to-day running and planning. Margaret is feeling over-stretched dealing with her responsibilities, which are more public relations-heavy. At first, it doesn't seem terribly appealing, but then she explains that she personally meets with the directors of museums to discuss programming, gallery owners to plan community outreach events, and artists applying for the fellowship program, and that sounds much more interesting. I even might be able to use my degree now and then.

By the end of tea, it's all decided, and within a week, I'm spending my days at the Van Lewen Foundation offices, getting up to speed on all the grants we award and the programs we finance. Having a structure to my day is good, and everyone seems delighted with the opportunity. Phil says that he's happy to see me dedicating myself to philanthropy so early on, as I'll be expected to do a lot of that as Alec's wife and his daughter. Even my mother is sufficiently pleased, and I can count on one hand the times I've done something that makes her happy.

*0*0*

I'm just finishing up typing my notes on our meeting with a neighborhood arts organization from the Bronx. What Margaret is really good at is talking. She has long, eloquent, exuberant conversations about the meaning of art and what it can bring to a community and she's enthusiastic and inspiring. I stand to the side and listen closely, taking copious notes, so that later, we can actually come up with a plan based on all those lofty chats. That's what I'm doing now; sifting through the two hour meeting notes for concrete action items.

Margaret peeks around the door frame, a smile on her face. "Are you in tomorrow, Isabella?"

Because I'm a volunteer, my hours are mine to set as I like. I'm usually here every day, but Margaret, being the gracious person she is, never assumes. If she needs me to help her with something, she always arranges it with me in advance. I appreciate her consideration.

"Of course. Do you need help with something?"

"I have interviews scheduled for the fellowship program all day. Can you sit in with me?"

"Sure. I'd love to."

"Jody has the binder up front. Why don't you take it home tonight so you can get up to speed on the applicants? I can't wait to hear your thoughts on the work. It's so good to have a fresh set of eyes looking at everything with me."

"I'll pick it up on my way out. It sounds really exciting."

Margaret leaves with a smile and a wave goodnight. I finish up my notes and retrieve the binder from Jody, before heading downstairs and hailing a cab. I call Alec on the way back to the apartment, and get his voicemail. No great surprise there. I leave a message reminding him about the donor's cocktail reception in two weeks. He'll never remember; I'll have to call Irina to have her add it to his calendar. But I still go through the motions of telling Alec about it.

No one is home when I get back, so I head straight up to my room. I'm tired of living with my parents. It was a stop gap over the summer when I didn't know what I was doing next. I figured by the fall I'd either be in grad school or working and either way, I'd move out. Instead, I'm volunteering at the foundation and engaged to Alec and my life is on a trajectory I hadn't expected. Staying in the apartment with Renee and Phil makes the most sense, but all the same, I want out.

I wonder again if I should move in with Alec. We haven't talked about it, but we're engaged so it only makes sense. I don't like his place, though, so I'm not too eager to suggest that as an option. I've spent nights there, of course, but it doesn't feel like my home. I'd suggest finding a new place together, except that Phil will probably buy us an apartment when we get married. I hate this feeling of limbo I'm in. Everything is on hold, waiting for the future to start.

Once I'm changed, I settle down with the Van Lewen Fellowship binder. It's the premiere program funded by the Foundation. The Fellowship is awarded to an up-and-coming artist each year, and provides a stipend plus living expenses for two years. It's understandably competitive, and there are multiple interviews, portfolio reviews, and studio visits to cull the finalists. They already did the first round of eliminations before I started and they're down to the ten finalists we're interviewing tomorrow.

I look through the binder, familiarizing myself with the artists, looking at color copies of their work and reading their mission statements.

I recognize the painting before I even see his name. I'd know that color usage anywhere. I feel it in my gut just the same way it did the first time I saw it. I can hardly breathe as I sit curled in the wing-back chair in my room, my hands white-knuckling the binder.

Edward Cullen.

After all this time.

I'm starting to hyper-ventilate as I skim through the scant biographical information. I know it all already, of course. Hometown, college, early works… I remember everything.

I snap the binder closed and then close my eyes. I feel a frantic need to escape—to get up and run—but it's already too late. Here he is, already back in my world. He's already met with Margaret if he's in the final round. Jesus Christ, he's going to be in the office tomorrow. I'm going to be in an interview with him tomorrow.

I can't breathe and my throat hurts and I'm going to fucking cry. Four years of pushing it away and willing myself forward and just like that, the reel of my life runs backward and I'm eighteen and broken-hearted again. I don't think I can do this. I can't face him. At the same time, I'm so desperate to lay eyes on him that I can't see straight.

I dump the binder on the floor as I scramble up, looking for my phone. I watch my fingers shake as I press the speed dial for Alice.

"Hey, sweetie!" she answers, bright and clear.

"Alice," I say. I'm whispering.

"What's wrong? Isabella? Talk to me!"

"He's back. Edward. He's back."

I can hear her draw in her breath, and then, "I'll be right there."

I don't need to buzz Alice up; Santiago knows her well and sends her up without even phoning me. Alice finds me still on the floor of my room, the skewed binder in front of me. She sinks to the floor next to me and slips her arms around me and presses her face against mine, temple to temple. She's cut off all her hair since high school. It's a sleek, super-short cropped cut now that looks fantastic on her. It's so different. Everything is different since then, except this one thing. There's still this hole that Edward left in me when he went away that has never fully healed.

I point at the binder and Alice takes a minute to glance through it.

"What do I do?" I ask her, because I really just don't know.

"You're going to face him," Alice says, her voice firm. No arguments. This is the Alice from our summer in Europe, commanding me to get moving and stop wallowing. She's right, of course. She always is. "You're not the same girl you were then, Isabella. I know at the time you didn't think your age mattered, but it did. You were young. And we all act a little crazy when we're young. We go too fast and we get in too deep. But you're _not_ eighteen anymore."

I nod, because this isn't the first time I've thought that same thing. I was so dismissive of my age back then. I tried to argue with Edward that it didn't matter the way he thought it did. But he was right. I _was_ too young—that's why I fell so hard and so fast. I was just a girl, I'd never been in love before, and I was desperately lonely. I never stood a chance. What should have been a crush turned into something that almost broke me and took me years to get past.

However, it's one thing to have figured all of that out in my head, and it's entirely another to make it true in my heart. That's the part that scares me. I know what I think, but I have no idea how I'll feel when I see him again.

Regardless, it _is _in the past. Whatever hold he still has over me is just my issue to deal with. I'm an adult now. I have a life and I have Alec… Jesus, _Alec_. He hasn't crossed my mind once as I sat here and melted down about another man. I feel terrible about that. All the more reason to man up and get a handle on my emotions. I can't let this rule me again. _Rule me still_.

I sit back and straighten up, swiping the tears off my face. "It was a shock to see his name again. I was just surprised, that's all."

Alice smiles and runs her hand over my hair. "Of course you were, sweetie. A little freak-out is perfectly normal. But now you've gotten that out of your system, so when you see him, you're going to be just fine."

I look at her, trying to draw some of the strength I see on her face. "Right. I'll be fine. I just need to get through tomorrow."

*0*0*

I miss three-quarters of what is said in the first six interviews of the day. I'm there and my hand is moving across my notepad, writing things down, but when I glance back over my notes later, it's like a stranger snuck in and wrote them. Margaret's voice sounds a million miles away. I shuffle the color copies of each artist's work, like I'm examining them for myself, but really it's just cover for my distraction.

I tried on and rejected six outfits this morning, which is crazy for me. I'd first picked a soft yellow cotton voile shirtwaist dress. It was perfect for the weather and pretty, but I felt too young and sweet in it, and that's the last thing I can be today. No more plaid skirts and knee socks. That girl needs to stay dead and buried. I finally settled on a navy knit wrap dress. I feel dark and dramatic in it, which is nice. I wish the dress were enough. It doesn't come close to making me feel ready for this.

I count down the minutes of each interview, watching the names tick away, while his stays there, hovering at number seven. Interviews one through five go so slowly that I'm sure the clock must be broken. Then we're finally interviewing number six and suddenly I'm desperate for time to stop. I can't do this; I'm not ready and I never will be.

That's when it occurs to me that I've had twelve hours notice to think and prepare for this. Edward will have had none. He has no idea that I'm sitting in this conference room right now. Will he even care? The sickening possibility dawns on me that he might not even remember me. The thought makes me just outraged enough that I'm ready to do this. I look good and I know it. I'm all grown up now. I'm not the trembling, desperate teenaged girl he knew. Let him come in. I dare him to forget me.

Then Margaret is standing up and shaking the hand of Crystal Markowski, the dreadlocked young woman who works with giant metal sculptures, thanking her for her time.

And I'm out of time. Edward Cullen is next on the list. My palms are sweating and the back of my neck feels prickly and cold. I can_not_ faint. I take a few deep breaths and stand up next to Margaret to get a handle on myself. Crystal backs out of the room with a last little smile and a wave. Over her shoulder, I see Jody, the receptionist, holding the door open. Crystal turns and smiles awkwardly at the person behind Jody, the person waiting to be shown in. She's smiling at _Edward_.

The room falls away from me as I stand there and brace my fingertips on the glossy conference table. Jody turns and says over her shoulder, "You can go right in, Mr. Cullen."

He steps around her, smiling as he enters. His eyes are on Jody at first, so I can take a look without him noticing me.

He's so much the same but, in some ways, very different. My obsessive memories haven't gotten anything wrong. He's just as beautiful as I remember, even through the rosy lens of my adolescent adoration. The same tall, lanky build and broad shoulders. The same long limbs and elegant hands. The same beautiful, angular face. I think I'd know the shape of his jaw anywhere. His hair is a little shorter, but still rumpled. He's more dressed-up than I've ever seen him, in a black button-down shirt and black dress pants. It makes him look older, more sophisticated, and impossibly more dangerous—because the second I lay eyes on him, I know I have a problem. I already knew it. I knew he still had complete command of me, but for the last twelve hours, I'd psyched myself into believing that I could manage it, hold it back, or ignore it.

None of that is true.

He turns his head to look at Margaret, still smiling, the same polite smile I remember seeing on his face the very first time I ever saw him. He looks older. Edward's looks are such that he will probably only look better as he ages. But I can see the passage of time on him. There are little lines around his eyes, and the glow that seems gone from his skin. The boyish look his face used to get when he smiled isn't there now. I miss it already.

He makes eye contact with Margaret as she welcomes him in, then his eyes flick to her right, to me, and his face freezes. The smile vanishes, and is replaced by that intense expression I remember so well from before when he would look at me. I will myself to look back, not to look away or get flustered. I'm almost shaking with nerves, but I don't think anyone can tell.

"Bella," he murmurs, and I'm so startled by the name. No one ever calls me that anymore, and I'm surprised that he remembers me that way. Then… _he remembers me_. He remembers me and the little details from our conversation the last day we were together. He remembers that I told him I used to go by Bella.

He's still staring wide-eyed at me, his mouth slightly open. It hits me that not only does he remember me, but he's been struck dumb by my presence. At least there's that. Now that the possibility is gone, I can acknowledge that it would have killed me if he didn't remember me. But he does, that's clear.

Margaret turns to look at me, her face puzzled. I swallow hard. I need to speak; I need my manners to kick in. It's only now that I realize that it's going to seem odd to Margaret that I never told her that I know Edward. I've been looking through the binder since last night. But I'm so accustomed to keeping him a secret and never talking about him, that it didn't occur to me to mention it to her. I clear my throat to buy myself a few more moments.

"Mr. Cullen taught a seminar at Spencer when I went there," I say to her. That sounds appropriately impersonal, I think. Margaret smiles in understanding and turns back to Edward.

"What a lovely surprise," she says, always so gracious. "Such a small world. Do sit down, Mr. Cullen."

Margaret waves her elegant hand at the chair in front of Edward, but he's still standing in the same place, still staring at me. I can't deal with the expression on his face, or what I imagine I see in his eyes, not if I want to make it through the next thirty minutes. So I look down at the table and slide my notepad six pointless inches to the right.

I hear him clear his throat. "Yes, small world," he finally says. And that voice… it still shoots through me like an electric current. I feel it run up the back of my neck and down to my fingertips. Still.

I hear him move around the chair and sit, but I don't look up. Margaret lowers herself into her chair, and that's when I finally move and do the same. I keep my eyes on my notepad, my fingers locked in a death-grip around my pen, as Margaret launches into her opening remarks. She praises Edward's talent and impressive early works. She mentions the glowing reviews in art journals and newspapers. He makes a few pleasant rejoinders. I say nothing at all.

"I must say, Mr. Cullen…" Margaret says.

"Edward, please. Just Edward."

Margaret smiles warmly. "Of course… Edward." He even charms her in all her chilly, dowager glory. "One of the things about your work that jumps out at first viewing is the color. It's so evocative and emotional. At first I was reminded of the Scandinavian Expressionists, but there's something much more visceral in your works. They're almost reminiscent of…"

"Turner." I have no intention whatsoever of speaking. My plan, such as it is, is to sit here and make a pretense of note-taking, keeping my eyes on the table, until this is over. But when Margaret starts talking about Edward and color and his influences, I just can't help it. It comes out before I even realize it. My eyes shoot to him, just as his shoot to me. The look that passes between us is electric.

"Yes, Turner. Of course," Margaret says, delighted, yet oblivious to the drama that just played out in front of her.

I make myself drop my eyes to my notepad. Looking at him like that will just make this worse.

A moment later, Edward starts talking, in halting fragments, about his work, citing his influences and inspirations. He starts slow, but just like he used to, his passion for the subject takes over and he goes on at length, all the awkwardness brought on by my presence forgotten. I keep my eyes on the paper and lose myself in his words, in the rise and fall of his voice. I always loved hearing him talk about his work, and it's even more intoxicating now. Before, when I was younger, none of it made much sense to me. He was smart and talented, and I was smitten by all the mysterious knowledge in his head. Now I've studied and I understand everything he's saying. Now he reaches my mind as well as my heart, and it's so much more deadly.

I keep my head down, but I glance at the color photocopies of his work. There are ones I recognize, and a few I don't— the newer ones, I imagine. They're not as bright. His paintings are still full of passion, but there's a frenetic energy to the older ones that's missing now. Or rather, more subdued. It makes sense, I suppose. He's older, more mature. It stands to reason that his work would evolve. After a minute, I realize that I'm staring at the prints like I might be able to decipher clues about his life from them. Like there are words to read there if I just look hard enough. I push them away, disgusted with myself, and focus on my notes again.

He and Margaret have a lively back and forth about his current series, the one he would explore more fully if he were to win the fellowship. He's so inspired and passionate about his new works, but at the same time, I can hear the frustration in his voice, how hard it is to be a working artist in the city. That's the kind of real-world pressure that the fellowship is meant to alleviate. I'm reminded that when he was younger, he had help with those pressures—help like Mimi Weigert. I wonder if he's still so popular with rich older women.

That's just the dose of harsh reality I need to keep from falling completely back under his spell. After all, he pushed me away and ran—because of my age and my powerful family, but also so that he could keep his rich patronesses happy.

But now he's here, actively pursuing the fellowship. He wouldn't need it if he still had those kind of friends. Maybe that's all in the past for him. After all, while he looks good, his clothes don't scream money. He looks like a starving artist, so maybe that's all he is. In the end, I realize that he's still as much of a mystery to me as he ever was and that I'm not going to get answers from this polite, formal interview, or from a handful of pictures of his paintings. I'm not sure if I'm even looking for answers anymore. At this point in my life, I shouldn't need them.

Margaret stands at my side to say goodbye to him and it breaks me out of my trance. I shoot to my feet as well.

"I'm so eager to tour your studio later this month," she says. "Jody will be in touch about the scheduling."

"I'm looking forward to it. You can better see what I'm trying to do with the texture in that later set. Photos just don't catch it."

"That's exactly why we like to tour the studios. So that you all have a chance to exhibit the work at its best. Thank you so much for sharing your work with us, Mr. Cullen," Margaret says, leaning across the table to shake his hand.

"The pleasure was all mine," Edward says, so smooth. "It's an honor just to be considered for this fellowship."

"Isabella, why don't you walk Mr. Cullen out so you two can catch up? Send in Mr. Phillips on your way out and I'll get started."

As much as I adore Margaret, I want to gouge her eyes out right now. I turn to look at her and I open my mouth to protest, but Edward cuts me off.

"That would be great," he says, flashing that twinkly-eyed, charming smile at her, the one that made all the girls in my art class, including me, fall to pieces. "I promise I won't keep her long."

Edward turns towards the door and looks at me expectantly. I have no choice but to go. He motions me ahead of him and I lead him out the door, moving carefully to avoid getting too close to him. When I see Jody, I ask her to send in the next interviewee and head towards the elevators without looking back. Edward falls into step next to me with two long strides. I forgot how long his legs are.

"Um…" he starts. I turn to look at him, working to keep my face impassive. There's no way I will let him know how much his presence affects me. "How have you been?" he finally asks.

I inhale before I answer. "Good. Fine." His eyes bore into mine. My memories haven't done the color justice. They're an almost-unbelievable shade of green.

"Glad to hear it," he says, after a very heavy pause. "You look fantastic." Then he closes his eyes and his face screws up in frustration. "I mean, you look good… happy."

My insides twist around at that, and it's all I can do to keep looking at him and answer. "Thanks. You do, too." I try and keep my voice level and dispassionate, the kind of empty platitudes I might say to any passing acquaintance I haven't seen in years. He's still fixing me with that stare and my heart is starting to pound. I can't do this for much longer. I'll crack. "What have you been up to all this time?" I'm hoping he'll toss in some detail about his personal life that will throw water on this fire in my chest. He's married, or living with someone, or something to show that everything is over and done with and ancient history.

He just shrugs and smiles. "You know. Just trying to get by and paint." I almost scoff out loud, thinking again about how he used to "get by", even though that doesn't seem to be the case anymore. I want to ask about that, and a million other things, but I can't. I guess I do still want answers. But it's all far too loaded. I cast around in my head for something polite and neutral.

"Do you still teach?" That seems like a perfectly innocuous question.

His eyes flash up to mine and I feel like I've inadvertently hit a nerve. "No, I don't teach anymore. I only did it that… the one time at Spencer. I tend bar. You know… to pay the bills."

"Oh." And I'm out of words and sinking fast. My mind is spinning, imagining him out there just living his life, tending bar and painting, while I've been… what, exactly? I have no business caring about any of this, but it's eating at me just the same. So much so that I almost miss it when he starts talking again.

"You're married," he says evenly.

I startle. "What?"

He finally looks away, his eyes dropping to my left hand. "You're married," he says again.

I look, too, just now remembering Alec's four-carat engagement ring on my finger, bright and new. My right hand flies to it automatically, twisting it in circles. "Oh, right… um, I'm engaged." The words feel thick in my mouth, but I can't think about that right now. There's this bigger issue of Edward still standing here staring at me.

"Congratulations," he murmurs. "And you're working for the Van Lewen Foundation?"

"Volunteering," I correct, "It's keeping me busy since I graduated."

"Right," he says, perking up and sounding more animated. "You graduated this year." It takes me a second to register that he's been keeping track of my graduation date in his head—that he was even aware of it.

"In June."

"What did you major in?"

I can't believe that we're standing here having this catching-up conversation, just like the two old acquaintances Margaret thinks we are. If it weren't for my racing pulse and sweating palms, I could almost convince myself that's all we are… or ever were. Maybe that's what this will become now. Maybe now that I've seen him again, all that stuff from the past will just stay there and eventually fade away, finally.

"Art History."

He looks up at me sharply. And we are _not_ casual acquaintances. How I could have ever thought we could be is ridiculous. There is so much energy bouncing between us that I feel faint from it. I swallow hard, but I can't look away from him.

"Really?" his voice is soft. "That's… Bella, I…"

Hearing him call me that again is the spark that ignites my panic. I step back a full foot and look off to the side, towards the elevators. "I have to get back in to Margaret and help with the interviews." I reach out and punch the button for the elevator, to emphasize that we're done here. "It was nice seeing you again, Edward."

He says nothing for a minute, then he sighs. "It was nice seeing you, too. Take care."

I back away without looking at him again. When I'm in the clear, I bolt for the conference room. I think about the bathroom, but if I'm alone, I'll cry and I can't cry. So I force myself back into the meetings and do what Alice taught me to do so effectively four years ago; I stuff Edward back into a box and shove it away deep inside.

*0*0*

**A/N: Ugh… holidays. I have a brutal few weeks coming up. I'm usually pretty good about updating weekly, but I may slow down a little bit, just until we get to the new year. I've written ahead by several chapters, but I find with this story that I go back into earlier chapters and rework things a bit as I write. So I'm hesitant to post too quickly and then paint myself into a corner. I'll go as fast as I comfortably can, I promise!**

**Oh, also, the lovely duramater has started a thread for The Art Teacher on the Twilighted Forums. It's pretty busy in there, so come by and visit!**

http : / www . twilighted . net/forum/viewtopic . php?f=44&t=13613&start=30

(Remove all the spaces)


	7. Pictures at an Exhibition

**Many thanks to WhatsMyNomdePlume for beta'ing and being a fun drinking buddy.**

*0*0*

"Tell me all about it. Every word."

"It… I survived, Alice."

"You sound okay. Was it okay?"

"Well, I wouldn't say it was okay. I was kind of a wreck. But yeah… I didn't freak out."

"What did he say? What did _you_ say?"

"It was an interview. Margaret was there for almost all of it. They talked about his work. I listened and took notes."

"_Almost_ all of it?"

"I walked him out at the end."

"Just the two of you?"

"For a few minutes."

"Well? What did he say?"

"He said I looked good."

"I bet he did."

"Alice…"

"What? You _do_ look good! Did you wear that black dress?"

"No, the navy wrap."

"Oh, that looks fantastic on you! Good."

"I'm not trying to seduce him, Alice."

"Still, there's nothing wrong with looking amazing. Aren't you glad I made you get those lowlights?"

"You're a genius."

"So what else did he say?"

"That was about it. Oh, he noticed my ring."

"Good! Was he upset?"

"Alice! Christ! No, he just… he saw it. And commented. I said I was engaged. That was it."

"Well, he'll see you with Alec at the fundraiser, I guess."

"What?"

"You told me that the fellowship finalists get invited to that cocktail party fundraiser thingy for the Van Lewen foundation, right?"

"Shit…"

"It'll be fine. You'll have Alec with you."

"He wasn't sure he could make it."

"Isabella, you _have_ to make sure he's there. Should I come with you? Just in case you need support?"

"No. I'll call Alec and make sure he comes. He'll look out for me. Phil and Renee are coming, anyway."

"To the fundraiser? Why?"

"Some business thing. Everybody goes. It's philanthropic, but you can still work out a deal over the canapés, I guess."

"Well, your parents are pretty useless, you know that. But as long as Alec is there, you'll be fine, right?"

"Right."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. As long as I stay with Alec, I'll be fine."

"Of course you will be."

Imagining Alec at my side when I see Edward again doesn't make me feel the least bit better, though.

*0*0*

The courtyard of the Frick Collection looks magical. It's dark outside the overhead skylight, and there are thousands of votive candles tucked into every conceivable corner to illuminate the space. The water from the fountain in the center glitters with the light of them. The space is packed from wall-to-wall with dowagers in sparkling gowns and white-haired scions of industry in tuxedos.

I'm standing next to Alec as he talks with Phil and Renee, and looking around as best as I can without being obvious and standing on tip-toe. I tell the others it's because I'm keeping an eye out for Margaret, but that's not who I'm looking for.

I checked the guest list on the sly two days ago, so I know he's coming, along with the other nine finalists. There was no 'plus one' next to his name.

I hate this. I hate this grinding anticipation, knowing that I'm going to see him, but not when I am. And I hate that I still care. I'm standing next to my fiancé. I'm twenty-two. Everything is different, and none of that stuff that happened four years ago should matter at all. But it does, and I know it. I should feel nothing more than a mild embarrassment around him, and instead, I feel like I'm crawling out of my own skin. I'm self-conscious, smoothing my long black dress down over my hips, too aware of how completely bare my shoulders, back, and arms are.

I close my eyes to regroup and when I open them again, I focus on Alec and whatever it is he's saying to Phil. It's about the company though, and I don't really care, so it's hard to pay attention. There's some business contact that they want to cultivate and he's here tonight, so they're all about their strategy. My mother is rapt, ready to spring into action as need be to aid the cause. I'm trying not to yawn.

I reach out for Alec's hand, needing something— his warmth, his solidity— to hold me in the present and keep my imagination and anxiety from running away with me. He squeezes my fingers briefly and throws one distracted half-smile at me before turning back to my father. It's not much, but I focus on his palm against mine and it helps a little. It's here and it's real. Then he slides his hand away to gesture about something and the feeling is gone.

"Bella?" Edward's voice comes simultaneous with his touch on the back of my bare arm. It's just his fingers brushing very lightly, to tell me he's there, but I still let out a yelp of surprise as I spin around.

He looks sheepish at startling me. He's not in a tux; just a plain dark suit, with a white shirt and a dark tie, but he looks better than any man here by a mile. His hair has been brushed but it's still in anarchy compared to the tidy executive haircuts on all sides of him. He's freshly-shaved and bright-eyed and so, so intoxicating to look at. His long, elegant fingers are curled around a highball glass and his other hand is stuffed casually in his pocket. I swallow and make myself look back to his face. He's looking back at me with an expression that makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle. If I felt exposed before, now I feel naked.

Then the look and the moment passes and he just smiles, friendly and open. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to say hi."

"Oh, you're not…" I have to stop and start over and I'm so glad I don't still blush like I did when I was younger. "It's fine. I'm glad you could make it."

He raises his eyebrows as he looks around himself. "Yeah, this is really... something."

I smile in spite of my nerves. "They know how to throw a good party."

"That's for sure." He smiles back and his eyes drop quickly down my body and then back up. "You look really…"

"Isabella?" I turn to see my mother looking at me in question. Her eyes flick to Edward and then back to me. Edward's face has gone blank since she interrupted him. There's nothing remotely friendly in her expression, but her voice is pleasant enough. "Introduce us to your friend?"

Alec and Phil are still deep in their business conversation and not paying attention. More than anything, I don't want to do this, but I can't get out of it. I pretend for a minute that Edward is nothing more to me than what he seems; somebody I met through work.

"Of course," I say smoothly. "Mom, this is Edward Cullen. He's one of the finalists for the Van Lewen Fellowship. Edward, this is my mother, Renee Dwyer."

Renee sizes him up slowly before she reaches her hand out. She's got her freshly-done blonde hair swept up in a high French twist and the enormous diamond earrings Phil gave her for Christmas two years ago flash brightly in her ears. She finally lets him take her hand, but keeps her fingers limp. "Edward Cullen," she says, as if searching her memory. I decide to connect the dots for her before she says something snotty.

"Edward also taught Art Appreciation at Spencer during my senior year," I supply.

"Ah, yes!" Renee's veneer of delight would almost be believable to someone who doesn't know her as well as I do. "Mimi Weigert found you, isn't that right?"

I want to kill her for wording it that way, which was completely intentional, but Edward just keeps smiling. If she's gotten to him, he's not letting her see it. "Yes, that's me. How is Mimi these days?"

Renee's fake smile grows more brittle. "The same as ever. Always busy with some new… diversion."

I wish the stupid marble floor underneath us would open up and swallow her whole. But it doesn't, and she and Edward go on smiling their false smiles at each other. Inside, I'm cheering that he's refusing to be intimidated by my mother. I think she hates him for it. I think he knows she hates him for it. I think he doesn't give a shit.

Renee cracks first. "Do come and meet the rest of the family," she says. I hate it when she trots out her phony cultured manners, especially when I know where she really came from. They work for Margaret, but Renee just sounds ridiculous when she tries it. She taps Phil on his arm and he and Alec finally knock off their business meeting. All these glossy, society manners and the two of them are being so rude in the midst of it, completely ignoring the new person standing with us. But it's the kind of rudeness everyone will overlook, because their lack of manners and self-absorption makes us richer.

"Phillip, this is Edward Cullen, one of the artists from Isabella's charity. Edward, this is Isabella's father, Phillip Dwyer."

"It's not a charity," I snap, my anger at her flaring up "It's a philanthropic foundation."

Phil's eyes cut to me and then back to Edward. He's not used to any show of emotion from me and he has no idea how to handle it, so he just keeps on smiling and shaking Edward's hand. And Edward never misses a beat, in spite of Renee's nasty little dig. He smiles and shakes right back.

"And this is Alec Winters, Isabella's fiancé," she continues, gesturing to Alec. Edward swings around to face him and I'm almost—but not completely— sure I'm not imagining how his eyes narrow a little and his expression gets shrewd, like he's assessing Alec. Alec misses it all, of course, his mind still on business.

"Nice to meet you," he says with a distracted smile, shaking Edward's hand. I'm staring hard at Alec, willing him to notice the tension, to see how freaked out I am and save me. He's supposed to ground me. I want him to put his arm around me and make me feel settled again, the way he always does. But he's only barely here in the moment. I can tell from his expression that he can't wait until the niceties are dispensed with so he can get back to business.

"You too," Edward says, sounding entirely insincere. It clearly hasn't been nice for Edward to meet any of my family, especially not Alec.

"If you'll excuse us, Edward," Renee interrupts, reaching out for my arm, effectively cutting Edward out of our little cluster of people. He actually has to take a step back to avoid getting clipped by her grasping hand. "There's someone here that we were just about to go say 'hello' to."

I gape at her, horrified by her rudeness, but Edward just smiles and holds up a hand. "No problem. I just wanted to stop by and say hello to Bel… Isabella."

I look back at him and he's got his chin tucked into his chest, looking up at me with an expression I can't quite read. His face and his eyes make my pulse pound, but my mother is turning me away to follow Phil and Alec, and I don't have time to figure out what it means. I look back over my shoulder one more time at Edward as I get towed through the crowd. He's not smiling anymore. He just raises one hand to wave a little, watching me go.

My anger at how badly my mother treated him has done away with all my anxiety over seeing him again—I suppose it was helpful in that regard. I'm mad and also embarrassed, even though he didn't seem at all put-out. It was almost like he expected it from her, which makes it so much worse.

Phil, Renee and Alec are in full-court flattery with this man they're trying to impress, Richard something, so I hang back and pretend to listen. They've been talking to him for ten minutes before Richard realizes I'm with them and nobody's bothered to introduce me. He interrupts my mother mid-sentence, extending his hand to me and introducing himself. I smile and return his polite comments, glad that someone in this place is able to shame my family, even if it wasn't the person who had every right to.

It doesn't last long though, and they're back to business. Alec is more animated than I've ever seen him as he talks shop. It's so odd to see him like this, since it is nothing like he is with me. I don't know how I feel about that.

Another ten minutes of business chatter that means nothing to me and I've had enough. I tug on Alec's sleeve. "I'm going to go find Margaret," I whisper. At least she'll acknowledge my presence and provide a little interesting conversation.

"Okay, good. See you later, babe," he whispers back. He never turns his eyes away from Phil and Richard.

I stand there and stare at the side of his face for another minute, but he really is done. That's all of the response I'm getting out of him. So much for keeping me safe tonight.

I'm on my own.

I turn and head towards the bar in the corner of the courtyard. I greet a few people I know along the way, but I don't linger to chat. I want a drink and some breathing room, in that order. The bartender swoops in to wait on me immediately, and I'm gripping my gin and tonic in moments. I take several long swigs from it and the warmth moving through my body makes me feel a little better immediately.

"Hey."

I nearly splash my drink on my hand when Edward speaks behind me. "Jesus, will you quit sneaking up on me?"

He chuckles and smiles. "I have to move like a ninja to get a minute alone with you," he says. But his words suddenly seem loaded and we exchange a brief, awkward glance.

"I'm sorry about that earlier," I say after a minute.

"About what?"

"My mother. She was horrible."

He laughs again, "Oh, that. Nothing I'm not used to."

I shake my head, "It was inexcusable. She was just being…"

"Protective," Edward finishes my sentence for me.

"Pretentious," I correct him, and he smiles, one corner of his mouth hitching up higher in that same way I remember. It makes my heart clench tight in my chest.

"Where's your fiancé?"

I don't expect the question and I blink a couple of times instead of answering right away. "Alec? Um, taking care of some business thing."

Edward's eyebrows hike up. "Business? Tonight? Isn't this your night?"

I try not to get defensive. After all, I'm pissed at Alec right now for exactly that reason. "I guess. But it was important."

"So are you," Edward says with a shrug.

I look back up at him. His roguish grin fades to a soft smile and his eyes stay on mine.

"Come inside and look at the paintings with me?" he says quietly, tipping his head towards the door beside us. His eyes are glinting in the candlelight and there's a teasing little smile appearing and disappearing on his lips as he watches me think about it.

I stare back at him for a long time. All kinds of thoughts play out in my head. The rational part of me knows I should say no. I should stay out here and avoid Edward at all costs. He's still a danger to me, that much is clear now. There's so much about him that I don't understand and he confuses and scares me.

I know I should stay here where I belong…with Alec. Except Alec is far away right now, literally and figuratively. He doesn't know or care where I am. He's not going to come looking for me. No one will. Except Edward. He's come looking for me twice tonight.

He doesn't look away once as I battle it all out in my head, the shoulds versus the wants. In the end, no one is there to witness my surrender to the latter, to the want. I give a tiny nod of my head and Edward's answering smile is glowing.

He steps a little to the side and extends his arm. I walk into the entrance hall just ahead of him. There are party guests scattered everywhere inside. It's quieter in here, so they've come to talk.

"This way," he murmurs, right over my shoulder, so close I can feel his breath. He moves in front of me to lead the way and his coat sleeve brushes against my bare arm. I get goosebumps. I close my eyes and swallow hard before I follow him.

We walk past the grand staircase and into the South Hall. There are still other people, but not as many, just a few clusters of people engaged in quiet conversations. Edward glances to the side and his eye is caught by the paintings lining one wall. I know them well. I know all these paintings well as I've spent hours and hours here. There are two Vermeers here, flanking a side table. In spite of Edward's overwhelming presence at my side, I can't help but get drawn in by the tiny pools of light, the subtle blending of colors, the clean, quiet compositions. We both slow to a stop, then stand side-by-side to look at them.

After a minute, Edward notices that he's lost my attention. "Do you like Vermeer?"

I sigh, never taking my eyes off the painting. "There's no art in your soul if you don't like Vermeer."

Edward chuckles. "I think I have to agree with you about that. His depiction of light is like no one else's. He can make the universe exist in a drop of water, right? He's like the god of small worlds."

I nod in agreement. "It's such a simple space he's created in there. In all these genre scenes, he depicts these tiny moments in a day, playing out in that same little room. The same cool beige wall, the same map, the same drape, the same window. The color repeats, too. He uses the same yellow ochre in almost all the clothes, and that same bright blue. It's almost lapis blue. Even the light feels the same. Quiet, cool, early morning light. It's so familiar and uncluttered. Life seems so much more manageable in there."

I snap out of my fog and realize that Edward's not looking at the painting; he's looking at the side of my face while _I _look at the painting.

"What?" I ask.

"Wow," he says, shaking his head. "You… you're different."

I straighten my shoulders a little bit. "I'm older."

"It's not just that. Before…" His eyes cut away as he says the word, because so far, we've carefully avoided any mention of _before_. "Before, all of this was new to you. Your responses were so instinctive and simple. Now…"

"College," I say, cutting him off before this gets any more uncomfortable. "I got my degree in this."

"It shows. You've been studying hard."

I want to say something sharp, like studying was all I could manage to do after he ran away, but I don't. I just move past him into the Living Gallery. He follows and we wander the room, mostly in silence, looking at the paintings scattered along the walls. There's a group of tuxedoed businessmen in here, though. Their conversation is really loud and obnoxious as they sip their scotch and compliment each other on their mastery of the universe. I look over and meet Edward's eyes. We exchange a brief, silent communication about them and we both smile before he tips his head in the direction of the next room.

I follow him into the library—it's much better in here. We're nearly alone. There are just two older women talking in the corner. We look at the portraits together— Gainsborough, Reynolds and Sargent. We stop in front of an eighteenth-century portrait by Reynolds of Lady Skipwith. She's beautiful, in her elegant dress, with her pale, delicate hands. But her face is vacant and she looks hopelessly bored.

God, do I know that face.

"Do you like these?" he asks. He keeps asking me which works I like. He was always this way, I remember, puzzling me out by my likes and dislikes.

I shrug. "They're pretty."

He laughs. "So you don't. That's what you're saying."

"I just said that they're pretty."

"After you waxed rhapsodic about the Vermeers? Faint praise."

"Alright, fine," I concede. "They're _just_ pretty. Rich, pretty people, being painted prettily, so that those same rich people can look at their pretty portrait and feel good about themselves. It's no different than those loud assholes next door."

"Okaaay then," Edward says, smirking at me, holding his hands up in defense. I can't help but smile back.

"You asked."

He looks at me closely again. "I did ask. Because I wanted to know."

And damn it, it's still there. That energy racing down my spine, the warmth flooding my body. How can he still have this hold on me all these years later? And he knows it's there. His face gets serious and he doesn't look away. Finally, I do, to preserve my own sanity. I clear my throat.

"There are some pieces in the West Gallery that you should see."

He follows me into the long, open West Gallery and I lead him halfway down the room, to the pair of Turners facing each other across the gallery. Edward stands in front of the painting of the harbor at Dieppe and shoves his hands in his pockets, drinking it in.

"You remember that I like Turner," he finally says, his voice a little soft with wonder.

"I remember."

"These are fantastic. The light… it's like they're lit from within. He created his own sun. It's amazing, right? And the color… it's incendiary but at the same time, it's just the sky. And what he does with brushwork…" His voice trails off as he gets lost in the painting.

I nod. "They're some of my favorites here."

"You come here a lot?" Just like that, his attention is off the Turner and one hundred percent back on me.

"Yes," I say. I don't want him to know that for a long time, whenever I was home, I would come and sit on the bench in the middle of the room and just stare at these paintings like they were Edward himself.

"Show me your favorite?" he asks. I remember this question. I asked him this, four years ago. He's remembering, too. I can see it in his face.

Without a word, I turn and lead him out of the West Gallery, back to the North Hall. My favorite is here. It's one most people probably walk right past on their way to the much showier royal portraits and epic baroque allegories back in the West Gallery. Whistler's _Symphony in Gray and Green_. It's a view of a Chilean harbor; a serene composition of cool colors and simple shapes.

Edward stops at my side and smiles. "Figures that you'd like Whistler."

"Why do you say that?"

"It looks like you."

My eyebrows furrow. "Explain that, please."

Edward shrugs. "No explaining it, really. I just look at that and it… feels like… _you_. Quiet, elegant, a little melancholy…"

"Melancholy?"

He shrugs, his eyes still on the painting. "Sad."

"You think I'm sad?"

He turns his head to look at me. "Are you happy?"

I open my mouth and then close it again quickly. All the polite platitudes are right there on the tip of my tongue; all the right things to say. But none of the words will come and I just scowl in confusion. He always did bring the truth out of me, whether I wanted to tell him or not.

Edward is still looking at me, and his whole face goes soft. I remember this face. It was the way he looked that long-ago day at the Met when I told him all about my family. "You were supposed to be happy," he finally says gently.

"What do you mean?"

"I was hoping that you were happy. And you're not."

I can't take the weight of this moment and everything he might be trying to say. I don't know if I'm ready for this conversation; I don't know if I'll _ever_ be. I look back at the Whistler and say nothing for a minute. Edward, thankfully, is silent, too.

"It's odd that the Whistler reminds you of me," I finally say, retreating to what I think is the safety of art. But I should know that there's no place that's safe for me where he's concerned.

"Why?" Edward asks.

"Because it always made me think of _you_." I flinch inwardly as soon as the words leave my mouth, because now I've done it. I've talked us right back around to _there_. That day, that place, that _dangerous_ place. The place I was trying so hard to stay clear of.

Edward's eyebrows pitch up in surprise. We're back to looking at the painting again instead of at each other. Poor Whistler is having to stand in as our intercessor. "Me? Why me?" he says, and I know he won't let this one go without an explanation.

"Well, your work. One work, really. The one you were working on…" I have to stop and close my eyes, trying to feel my way through this in the least painful way possible, but it's no use. I have to just say it. "The one I saw in your apartment. You know… that day I was there."

I keep my eyes away from him; I look at the Whistler, at the edge of the gilt frame and the little dragonfly that's carved there. Edward says nothing. It's so quiet in this hallway that I can hear every breath he takes. When he finally speaks, his voice is so low he's almost whispering. "That painting was about you."

I stop breathing and close my eyes. I can't deal with what he's telling me. Because what he's saying is that I was tangled up in him just like he's been tangled up in me all this time. And he left anyway. Left and stayed away for all these years. I don't understand it and it hurts and my chest feels like it's caving in on itself.

"Bella…" he murmurs at my side. I feel him take a step closer to me and then I feel his hand, wrapping around my arm, just above my elbow. Every nerve ending comes alive where he touches me.

"I can't…" I don't even know what I want to say. I'm a mess. He can't do this to me. He can't say things to me with that quiet, secret voice after all these years of leaving me alone, and he just can't touch me this way. I'm too weak and I can't do it.

"Isabella?"

My eyes snap open.

_Alec. _

Edward instantly lets go of my arm, his hand falling to his side. I take a quick step back away from him. We've been standing too close together in this empty hallway; I don't even know how long we've been here. I turn to see Alec standing at the end of the hall, in the doorway. His eyes are hard and fixed on Edward.

"Alec, I…"

"Your parents are leaving and they didn't know where you'd gotten to." He talks right over me, never looking away from Edward.

"Edward and I were just catching up," I say, my manners and instincts finally kicking in. I glance at Edward and he's staring back at Alec, chin up. The looks they're throwing at each other could light this place on fire.

"I see that," Alec says, his jaw clenched.

I bristle at his tone. After all, I never would have had the time to wander off and get lost with Edward if he'd paid even passing attention to me tonight.

"Yes, you were busy, so we came to look at the paintings," I snap.

His eyes finally glance at me and he looks mildly abashed before flicking back to Edward. "Right. You're into this art stuff like Isabella."

Edward snorts and the corner of his mouth curls up, but he's not remotely amused. He looks furious. It's beyond tense, standing here in the middle of the hall, with the two of them at either end glaring, so I bring the whole thing to a quick close.

"It was really nice talking to you, Edward," I say over my shoulder, not meeting his eyes. "Are my parents waiting, Alec?"

"No, they went ahead. You can ride with me."

"Can you call the car?"

Alec hovers for another second, uncertain about leaving me alone with Edward. I start moving towards him, like I'm following him out. "I need to say goodnight to Margaret. I'll meet you at the front door."

Alec nods tightly and leaves. I keep moving, not wanting to get caught alone with Edward again. I need some time alone to think about this exchange and how I feel about it.

But Edward's not done with me. I'm walking away from him, but I hear his step on the marble floor right behind me.

"Bella."

His hand closes around my arm again and I stop short, but I don't turn to face him. I squeeze my eyes closed, bracing for what comes next. I don't know if I'm dreading it or desperate for it.

Edward doesn't drag it out, though. He just leans forward, until his mouth is right next to my ear. "They don't deserve you. None of them."

Then he releases my arm and moves away. I still don't face him. I just drag in a deep breath and stare straight ahead.

"Do you?" I whisper.

I can't see his face, but I can hear the defeat in his voice. "No, I don't," he whispers back.

"I have to go. Alec will be looking for me."

"I'll see you soon," he says, sounding like a promise and not just a platitude.

*0*0*

"Can you believe the fucking nerve of that guy?" Alec says, once we're moving. I lean back into the cool leather seat and stare out the window.

"What are you talking about?"

"That artist asshole you were talking to," he nearly shouts. He must have had more than a few scotches with Phil, because I've never seen Alec so animated. His eyes are bright and his cheeks are slightly pink. "He had you practically backed into the wall."

"Don't be ridiculous. He was just…"

"I mean, that he even thought he had the right to touch you…" Alec bulldozes right through like I didn't speak, and what he says makes me flush with rage.

"Excuse me?" I snap. "The _right_? What the hell does that mean?"

Alec finally looks at me, and seems surprised that I'm upset. "Isabella, come on. He's just some bottom-dwelling leech. I know you and Margaret think he's got some amazing talent or whatever, and maybe he does. I sure as hell don't know anything about _that_. But trust me; the guy's just working his angle, the same as everybody else."

I open my mouth to snap back at him, but then I remember Mimi Weigert and the woman at his apartment years ago and the words die on my tongue. Alec isn't done though. He's half-drunk and loquacious.

"It's one thing to kiss up to you girls for the fellowship or whatever. But the dude has some ridiculous nerve putting the moves on you. Like _that_ was ever going to happen."

"Do you hear yourself right now? God, you're like a cliché, Alec."

He finally seems to realize that he's crossed a line with me. His face softens and he reaches out to stroke my shoulder. I wrap my arms tightly around myself. "Babe, come on. You know I'm just looking out for you. I'm trying to keep you safe from the creeps."

He smiles a little, trying to lighten the tension that's heavy in the car. I slouch down into my seat, but say nothing. After another long minute of silence, he says. "Do you want to come over to my place tonight?"

I'm still staring out the window. "I'm really tired. I just want to go home and sleep."

Alec's hand slides off my shoulder, not even attempting to argue or convince me. "No problem, babe."

Minutes later, the car pulls up in front of my building.

"I'll walk you up," Alec says, reaching for his door handle.

"It's really not necessary, Alec. Santiago is right there."

"Okay…" he pauses awkwardly, not sure how we're leaving things. I'm not sure either. Finally, he leans forward and kisses my cheek. I'm out of the car before he even sits all the way back.

I stand on the sidewalk and watch the tail lights of his car until it turns the corner. It's a nice night out; just a little cool, with a slight breeze. I want to walk. I wish I could just take off and go until I run out of streets and hit water. I want to be alone, just me and the night. But Santiago is looking at me expectantly. My mother and Phil are no doubt, waiting upstairs to discuss the evening. And tomorrow there will be Alec to face again. I can't even begin to address Edward and the way that tonight unraveled me.

So I just turn and head in through the heavy glass door that Santiago holds open for me, back to the life that's waiting for me inside.

***0*0***

**A/N: **First, I want to say THANK YOU for all your support and enthusiasm for this story. The response has truly blown me away and I never expected it. I know I've been utter fail about replying to reviews, but my time is really limited right now and y'all are just overwhelming me! Hopefully after the New Year, things will quiet down and I can thank people individually for all the lovely things they've said in reviews. Just know that I'm reading them all and they mean the world to me.

Also, I'm about to launch into my holiday marathon. I'm working like crazy, out of town, surrounded by family… the works. So you probably won't hear from me again until after New Year's. I'm working hard on it whenever I get a spare minute, but there aren't many of those right now.

***0***

I referenced a lot of real places and real artworks in this chapter. There are pictures of most of it on my live journal page:

http : / spanglemaker9 . livejournal . com/5341 . html

Remove all the spaces, or you can find a direct link on my profile.

***0***

I have some thanks this week:

The lovely DeeDreamer featured all my fics and said many lovely things about them on Random Acts of Rob.

Cyra Bear also recc'd The Art Teacher in a recent chapter of For Whom the Bell Tolls, which is amazing and you should be reading it.

***0***

And lastly, if you're still reading, I have a recc:

Through the Oak Door by struckatthesky


	8. The Sand Beneath Me Slips

**WhatsMyNomdePlume betas, but I messed around with this chapter forever after she sent it back. I fully own all mistakes.**

*0*0*

The urban landscape outside our sedan window is intimidating. All I can see are low warehouse buildings and small shabby manufacturers and many look closed.

Margaret and I, along with Lucy Price, another board member, are in the black sedan on our way to Edward's studio, somewhere in industrial Brooklyn. I glance down at the leather binder in my lap, and the post-it with the address on it. It's completely unfamiliar to me, but the driver swore he knew where it was, so I have to trust that we're heading in the right direction.

Margaret and Lucy are chatting away about Edward's work around me, but I'm only half-listening. I'm far too worked up to focus.

It's been four days since I saw Edward at the Frick. Four days in which I've barely slept and thought about little else. I haven't seen or heard from him, but it's not like I thought I might. Anyway, I have no idea what I'd have said to him if I did. How am I supposed to respond to that stuff he said to me? It's like he wants me again, like he never _stopped_ wanting me. I can't reconcile that with his leaving and staying away so long. And now he's returned when I'm finally put back together, when I've finally built a semblance of a life for myself, and he wants… what?

In addition to my confusion over Edward, there's my confusion over Alec. The day after the reception at the Frick, he sent me an enormous bouquet of roses, along with a card saying that he was upset that we fought. The gesture was sweet, but I couldn't help still feeling peevish that he didn't actually apologize. Then again, neither did I. I didn't technically do anything wrong, but I feel guilty about it anyway, which probably means I did. My mother hounded me for two days until I called him back. We had a perfectly nice conversation on the phone, but he was going into a meeting and has been busy since, so we're still in some sort of weird limbo.

I think I'm making a mistake with Alec. No, I _know_ I am. I saw a different side of Alec that night at the Frick; a new and unpleasant one. The more I think about it, the more certain I feel that what I saw was not an aberration, but just Alec unguarded. The alcohol and anger stripped away his polished, professional veneer and I don't like what I've seen underneath. That man is a stranger that I have no desire to know better.

I need to back out, extricate myself as soon as I can. But every time I think about doing it, I imagine the way my world will explode. I think about the meltdown that will surely follow, and I just can't figure out a way to do it that won't end in misery for everyone. So I keep stalling and Alec is barely around, making it easy for me to put it off. I'm such a coward.

I shake my head slightly. I can't think about this now when I'm about to face Edward again. There's the studio tour to get through, and all his art to look at. Apart from everything else that is going on, I really do believe in Edward's talent. He deserves this fellowship and I don't want our complicated history to jeopardize his chances in any way. I resolve to be professional today. What happened at the Frick can't happen today.

The sedan slows to a stop at the curb. Margaret and Lucy stop talking and peer out the windows. I glance around. This is it? His studio is here? I thought we would just pass through this bleak industrial wasteland and exit into something less post-apocalyptic. But everything outside looks the same. Mostly run-down businesses, bodegas and warehouses, trash in the gutters, weeds sprouting out of cracks in the sidewalk. There's plenty of traffic on the streets still. It by no means feels abandoned. Just very rough around the edges.

Margaret lets out a little trill of laughter. "You can never tell where the creative soul will nest," she says, waving a hand at the grey buildings outside the windows. "Mr. Cullen works on large canvases and needs a lot of space. I'm sure this neighborhood has plenty of that to offer."

This is what I love about Margaret. Her veins run with the bluest of blood, but if she sees real talent, she's game for absolutely anything. Nothing phases her. To her, all the danger and dirt is just part of the artistic process, and nothing is more sacred to her than that.

Margaret's words relax Lucy, and she begins to gather up her things.

"Isabella, could you call Mr. Cullen and let him know we're here?" Margaret asks.

I fumble with my binder, looking for Edward's contact sheet. When I find his number, it only takes me a moment to realize that I can't call him. I can't trust myself to sound detached and professional with Margaret and Lucy looking on, so I take the coward's way out again and I text him instead.

_We're downstairs._

I busy myself for a moment, reorganizing the papers in my binder, until Margaret interrupts me.

"Oh, look! Here he is."

My head snaps up and I see Edward holding open a battered steel door, standing in the doorway. The driver is opening the back door of the car for Margaret. Edward is all polite smiles. Just the sight of him weakens me to a ridiculous degree, and I hate how every molecule of me leans towards him like a plant towards the sun.

I let Margaret and Lucy go first so that I can take a minute to compose myself. I tug at the cream knit dress I'm wearing and unnecessarily tighten one of my earrings. I have a moment of regret that I wore my hair down today. It always makes me look so young and girlish, which is the last thing I need to be now.

"Coming, Isabella?" Lucy says, peering back into the car. I must look like I'm hiding in a cave back here, clutching my binder like a shield. I slide out of the car before someone has to drag me out. Edward's standing a few feet away, chatting with Margaret. As I straighten up, his eyes flicker to me with that intense knowledge that's always there. I feel like there's never just a casual glance from Edward. Every time he looks at me, I feel everything— every rush and tingle he made me feel four years ago, and every racing pulse and flush of heat he makes me feel now. And I feel like he knows that.

Then he looks back to Margaret and that expression is gone.

"Ready to go up?" he says to her.

Margaret beams and nods. Edward motions for her to precede him and falls in right behind her, continuing their conversation. Lucy and I follow behind them. He hasn't dressed up too much for today. Nice jeans and a dark button-down shirt, tucked in. It's a good choice. A suit and tie would feel false on him. This is just Edward—he's on his own turf.

Lucy and I follow Edward and Margaret into a very dark stairwell. There's a little pale light filtering down from a dirty skylight high overhead, but it barely reaches the foot of the stairs where we are. The stairs are steel and wide, built to accommodate workers hauling large loads. Everything is dirty and dented from decades of hard work. Edward takes the lead on the stairs, chatting casually with Margaret the whole time. Lucy doesn't touch the handrail. Margaret runs her hand along it the whole way up.

Two flights up, Edward stops on a landing. There's a large, steel rolling door to the left. He grabs the metal handle and hauls it back with practiced ease. It lets out a horrific shriek of un-oiled metal on metal. Lucy flinches and gasps, but Edward doesn't seem to even notice it. He waves his arm to usher us in ahead of him. Margaret goes first, Lucy follows and I go last. As I pass Edward, I feel the tips of his fingers brush my arm through the sleeve of my dress.

"Hi," is all he says, but it's enough to throw me into a near-meltdown. I don't say anything in return, or even look at him. I just follow Margaret and Lucy in to stand in the middle of the space.

The room is large— a thousand square feet, maybe more. One long wall is entirely windows, split up into numerous small, dirty panes of glass. A few are cracked and cardboard covers one. Against the shorter, far wall, I see where he actually "lives". There's a low futon and a couple of small, battered pieces of furniture. At first glance, I don't see an obvious kitchen. This place doesn't even look zoned for residency, and I figure he must be camping out here illegally.

"Your studio is so interesting, Edward," Margaret says, looking around her. "Such wonderful light and so much open space."

He smiles and stuffs his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, like he's uncomfortable. "Thank you, but this is just, um… temporary. I think I'm moving soon."

"Oh, that's too bad. But I know how hard it is to find the kind of affordable space you need to really spread out."

He nods, eyes on his feet. "Yes, it is."

"Tell us where you'd like to start," she says brightly.

He motions across the room and Margaret and Lucy trail after him to look at the painting he indicates. I stay where I am, looking around on my own, not ready to be so close to him.

Like his little basement apartment I saw years ago, the primary use of this space is clear. Edward's art is everywhere, taking up the lion's share of the floor, wall, and table space. His large, colorful canvases are everywhere I look. He's prepared for us so several are up on easels for easier viewing. Others are propped against the walls and support columns in the middle of the room. Many of the canvases are familiar to me. They're from his gallery show four years ago, or they're from the same series.

My eyes stop moving when I spot the one from his apartment that day; the one he said was about me. That's me in his painting; or at least Edward's vision of me. And he's right. It looks like Whistler— cool, serene, sad. He saw me so clearly, even then. He knew me well enough to capture my essence in color and shape. He tells more about me with paint on a canvas than I could with thousands of words in a hundred years. My throat closes up and I'm afraid I'm going to start fucking crying after being in his studio for all of three minutes.

I drag my eyes away, desperate to look at anything else. Instead, I'm faced with more of the same. Interspersed with the hot, vibrant canvases from four years ago that I remember so well, there are more like the one about me. Many more. They represent a whole new stylistic phase in Edward's art. I'm not even conscious of leaving Margaret and Lucy, but I wander away, closer to the paintings. I can't wait to see more of this new part of Edward's life.

Some are serene, like the first. They have that same calm, quiet feeling. But others are not so peaceful. They're dark and the cool colors aren't calm, they're foreboding, ominous. I sense themes at work in them, but I feel too close to the subject to be confident of what I see. I feel like I read so much emotion and expectation into every single brushstroke.

It doesn't matter, though. When I can divorce my critical eye from my personal reactions, what I see is that he's brilliant. He was good before, but now he's great. Looking at Edward's paintings make me feel satisfied. They make my mind and soul feel full in the same way that a good meal makes my stomach feel full. Great art does that to me, and Edward's art is great.

I don't know how long I spend wandering the periphery of Edward's loft looking at his paintings. Too long, probably. I can hear the three of them talking on without me. Even Edward's presence hasn't been able to penetrate the fog I've been in. Luckily, we came to look at the work, so my distraction is easily explained away. Still, I came to do a job, and I need to do it. God only knows what lofty ideas Margaret has cooked up in my mental absence.

I cross back to her side, keeping my eyes firmly on Margaret, refusing to look anywhere near Edward. It feels like his eyes are burning into the side of my face, but I won't look. I feel too exposed. I feel like I am all over these canvases, and I don't know what to make of that or what I'm supposed to say. So I say nothing. I listen to Margaret and I take notes, just like always.

She's so excited about Edward's work. It's clear in the high pitch of her voice and the way her words start to rush along. She loses her clipped, cultured blue-blood accent in her enthusiasm. It makes me want to smile. He is good. He should be painting all the time. I know that's what he likes best, and regardless of what's happened between us and the complicated emotions still at play, I want him to be happy and happy for Edward equals painting. I don't want to attempt to influence the choice at all, but I _want_ this fellowship for him so badly. He deserves it.

"Edward," Margaret says, crossing to the wall of works I'd been looking at earlier. "I see such a dramatic shift in these works from your earlier series. Tell me what you were exploring with these."

Edward clears his throat, but I don't look.

"It was… I was about a year out of college," he says evenly. "The earlier series reflects a lot of the boundless enthusiasm I had when I left art school."

"And you lost your enthusiasm in the later series?" Margaret asks.

"Not necessarily my enthusiasm. I don't think I'll lose my enthusiasm for painting for as long as I live. It's who I am. But there were… life brought complications," he says slowly. "Some of that youthful optimism dimmed, for sure. I suppose that's what you're seeing."

Margaret nods in understanding. "For now we see through a glass, darkly," she quotes.

"I guess you could say that. It was a bit of a dark period for me. Although I'm in a better place now. More… hopeful."

"The works are…" Margaret pauses. "I don't want to say better. They're all remarkable. But in these later ones, there's an emotional maturity, a depth that's not present in your earlier works."

Edward pauses for a moment. I still don't look at him, but when he speaks, it sounds like his response is meant just for me. "There is. I grew up a lot in those years."

Margaret and Lucy chatter on for a little while about Edward's remarkable brushstroke technique and sophisticated use of color. Edward circles near them, on hand to answer questions, but largely standing back as they discuss his work. I circle, too, farther out, trying to put some distance between me and Edward's enormous gravitational pull. Aside from his murmured hello when I came in, we've yet to say a word to each other directly, although he's never left my thoughts and I get the feeling that he's been acutely aware of me, too.

I force myself to refocus when I realize that Margaret and Lucy are wrapping up the conversation.

"Well, Edward," Margaret says. "This visit to your space has been very enlightening. It's clear your life is about your work. The final decision about awarding the fellowship is made by the entire board, but I must say, speaking for myself, your work is outstanding. I have no doubt you'd make excellent use of it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Nielsen."

"Please, call me Margaret."

I smile at that. I'm on "Margaret" footing with her, but few other people are. For all her passion for art, Margaret is still rigidly formal in a lot of ways. If she's putting Edward on a first-name basis, she obviously adores him.

"Margaret, then," he replies.

"Thank you for having us into your studio, Edward. We've so enjoyed seeing the works in person with you."

I let myself look up at him for this exchange, since his attention is on Margaret. He's smiling his best warm, familiar smile at Margaret and I get the feeling that he's actually fond of her. He's not just kissing up for the fellowship, not in the way that Alec accused him. "You're absolutely welcome. I've really enjoyed showing them to you."

I half-listen to the rest of them wrap up the chit chat. Instead of participating, I look around the room again at Edward's paintings. I remember once he told us that it is the artist's soul up there on the canvas. In Edward's case, though, he has it wrong. I think it's _my_ soul on his canvases.

"Are you ready, Isabella?" I glance up when Margaret speaks.

"Yes, of course."

"You were so quiet today," she says. "Is everything alright?"

My face burns and I focus hard on not looking at Edward. "Yes, everything's fine. Just the… um, the work. I was very focused on the work."

"Mr. Cullen is so very talented, isn't he?" Margaret says fondly, like he's her long-lost grandson.

She's looking at him, smiling, and now it seems awkward if I don't do it, too. So I look. And he's looking right back at me. I feel the tingling all the way down in my feet; a cold, sharp flush of awareness. For all the polite conversation and artistic discussions today, underneath it all, this thing between us is still seething. I've only managed to momentarily suppress it by not paying attention to him. I haven't diminished it one iota.

One corner of Edward's mouth curls up slightly as he waits for my answer, and the moment between us feels so quiet and intimate. It's almost embarrassing that Margaret is here for it, even if she's completely unaware.

"He's very talented," I reply simply. Edward's smirk bursts into a full-on grin and I duck my head, fighting my own.

Lucy says goodbye and then everyone is shaking hands in farewell. I hang back several feet to avoid contact with him, which I don't think I can handle right now. I wait until Margaret and Lucy are walking towards the door, talking quietly, before I fall into step behind them. We've stayed much longer here than was scheduled and now Margaret is running late for a meeting back at the office. I feel bad about that—I should have been keeping an eye on the time for her, but I was distracted, too. I'm still lost in my thoughts when I hear a rustle and sense Edward step up behind me. His arm reaches over my left shoulder and his fingers quickly close around my black leather binder. He slides it out of my hands so fast that I can't even react. Before I can even turn around to question him, he's leaning in, whispering in my ear.

"You forgot this. Come back for it."

I suck in my breath and when I get to the large steel sliding door, I glance back at him over my shoulder. He's standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets. My binder is nowhere to be seen. The look he gives me, so urgent, makes me feel flushed all over.

I stumble down the stairs after Margaret and Lucy, frantically trying to compose the lie that will free me. My hands are shaking and a cold prickle of sweat has broken out across the back of my neck. I still have no idea what words I'm going to say when we reach the curb. Margaret starts to step through the car's back door, being held open for her, and I'm out of time to make it up. I go from the gut.

"Oh, hell!" I say. The fact that I've cursed is a sure tip off that I'm agitated. Margaret and Lucy both stop to look at me. "I've lost my binder!" I practically wail. "I had it with me when I went in, but I must have set it down somewhere."

"Well, why don't you go take a quick look, Isabella?" Margaret says. "We can spare a minute." She glances down at her tiny platinum Rolex.

I shake my head, hoping to hell that I can pull this off believably. "It could be anywhere in there. I have no idea when I last had it. And you saw that place. It could take me forever to find it. Margaret, I don't want to make you any later. I'll just have Mr. Cullen call me a car service to get home."

Margaret and Lucy examine me for a moment and I swallow hard. "I'm sure they have car services here, right?" I laugh a little, and it's just enough to break the tension.

"Surely they _must_!" Lucy says in horror. "Do you want me to wait with you, Isabella?"

"No, I'm fine. I promise. I'll stay inside until the car comes. Go! Don't be any later on my account!"

That seems to be all Margaret needs. They both hustle into the car and it peels out as the driver tries to get Margaret where she needs to be on time. I take a deep breath and turn back to Edward's building. I climb the stairs on auto-pilot, unable to even guess what might be waiting for me back in his studio.

When I round the last bend in the stairs, he's leaning on the open sliding steel door, one knee bent, arms crossed over his chest.

"Hello again," he says as I reach the last step.

"Hi."

His tiny half-smile grows wide. "There's my hello. You didn't speak to me at all today."

"I didn't…" I stop and take a deep breath. I'm already so thrown and off-kilter and now he's _flirting_ with me. Edward had me helpless and vulnerable when he was holding me at arms' length and running like hell in the opposite direction. This active pursuit leaves me feeling so confused.

Edward pushes off the door. "Come in." Now he's serious, apparently done with teasing me.

I brush past him and go back into his studio. Conversely, it seems smaller, more intimate, now that there's just two of us here. Just him and me and all these paintings. I hear him step up behind me, but not too close—there are still a few feet between us.

"You didn't say much today. I really wanted to know what you thought of the work. You looked for a long time but didn't say anything."

I move away from him, towards one of his later works. It's all blue-green and cool grey—watery shapes bleeding into one another until the edges are gone. "I like them. But they're so different from the old ones. It's like… like a new you painting them."

"It sort of was. It's been a long four years."

I inhale slowly, letting the air fill my lungs and every cell out to my fingertips. I feel like I need every tiny grain of strength I can muster to keep talking to him. "Yes, it has been," I murmur.

"Tell me."

"What?"

"Tell me what you've been doing. I want to know."

I look at him, eyebrows raised, trying to figure out what he's getting at. "Really? Well… I went to college. I took a lot of classes. I did some internships… that's about it."

He lets out an exasperated huff. "Not that. Tell me about _you_. Did you enjoy your life? Were you happy?"

His questions are making no sense and I don't know how to answer. "Happy? Was I _happy_? No, not particularly, if you want to know the truth."

"I wanted you to be."

Now it's my turn to huff in exasperation. "So you said last week. That's all well and good that you wanted me to be happy, Edward. But you didn't have any say over that. You didn't _want _any say. You demonstrated that pretty clearly four years ago."

I feel myself getting infuriated at his questions. Is this really what this is about? He just needs me to reassure him that I'm fine— no blood, no foul—so he can move on and not feel guilty? I don't want to give him the satisfaction and the closure. It might be petty and spiteful of me, but I've had no peace, not then and clearly, I still haven't found it, so I don't want him to have any either.

"Bella…" he says softly, his face screwed up. And I don't know what it is—his own apparent unhappiness, or his persistence in using the familiar nickname that only he knows—but I've just had more than I can take. My capacity to stand here and pretend to be okay is exhausted. I want to fall apart, and I want to be alone when I do it. I certainly don't want Edward to witness me do it. He already has way too much power over me.

I stand up a little straighter and start for the door. "If all you wanted from me was a happy-face answer to make you feel better, then you're going to be disappointed," I snap. "It happened, Edward. And it mattered. To me, it mattered a lot."

I have my fingers curled around the heavy steel handle when his hand closes around my other arm.

"No, don't go."

I freeze. His hand tightens and tugs. It's a force I can't resist, not then and not now. I let go of the handle. He reaches around me for my other arm and turns me to face him. I've got my eyes closed and I'm barely breathing.

His hands slide down until he's gripping my hands in his. His thumbs rub back and forth over my skin. It's all I can feel. My whole body is reduced to the tiny places where he's touching me.

"I just want to figure out the truth."

"About what?" I whisper.

"About me and you. _This_. All these years," he murmurs, "I've tried so hard not to think about you. Sometimes I almost convinced myself that it wasn't real— that I imagined it."

One hand releases mine and he raises it to touch my face, soft and curious. I let out a long, shaky breath and open my eyes to look at him, not even trying to mask my hurt anymore.

"How could you think it wasn't real?"

"Not this," he says. His eyes finally meet mine and he drags the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip, slow, so that I know what he means, what he's remembering. Like I could ever forget. I've lived in that moment for so long. He raises my hand, still wrapped in his, and presses it against his chest, right over his heart. "This," he says simply. "I didn't imagine this, did I? This thing we have?"

I just shake my head, which is all I can do because I can't speak yet. We're touching. We've gone from barely-spoken words and careful distances to sharing the same air and intimate touches and it's making my head reel.

"Bella…" He holds my face in his hands and then pulls me forward until his forehead touches mine. My fingers curl into his chest, gripping his shirt. He sighs and I feel his hot breath wash across my face. "Sweet, sad girl," he whispers against my cheek. "I want to make you happy. Let me try to make you happy."

I feel his hand on my waist, on my back, his arm curling around my body, pulling me in against him. His intoxicating physical presence that I barely got to know seems to be like a virus lying dormant in my blood, just waiting for him to come back. I take one tiny step into him and whatever fragile resistance I was holding onto crumbles. I hang onto his shoulders and press my cheek to his. My throat aches with everything I'm holding back and I still can't speak.

His cheek slides along mine, the stubble scraping, and then his lips, so warm and soft, are on mine. It's the same tentative aching want as last time. So very many reasons that this moment shouldn't be happening—except that it _has_ to. It feels inevitable that I was meant to be here with him now. Now it's all so clear. Everything else I was doing was marking time until this… when he was back in my arms and finally mine.

The slow press of our mouths melts into more. It turns into open lips and soft tongues. His hand grips my head; his arm holds my body. And now there's no fight left, not for either of us. There's only relief that we're finally back_ here_.

When we pause to breathe, he reaches up with both hands, holding my face still as he kisses my cheeks, my eyes, the corners of my mouth. It's bliss and I want to let go and drown in it, but I'm so afraid. There's still that old hurt pushing me to be more careful with my heart this time.

"Edward," I whisper. My hands are twisting in his shirt around my fingers. "I can't… not if you're not going to stay. Please. Not unless you'll stay."

He pulls back just far enough to look at me, his dark green eyes half-closed. "I never wanted to go, Bella, I swear. I wanted you, more than you can imagine. I still want you." He kisses my closed eyes again and then my temple. "We can do this," he murmurs into my hair, almost like he's convincing himself as well as me. "We can be something good. I promise. We'll figure it out. Just…"

It all feels so good and so right, but the worry just won't let me be. I'm hanging onto his shirt for dear life even as I'm making myself ask the things that could end it all.

"If you wanted me, why did you choose _them_? The women? You did, didn't you? Was it just about what they could do for you?"

Edward squeezes his eyes shut and I can tell that what I said hurt him. But he doesn't loosen his hold on me. He keeps his forehead pressed against mine, one arm around my back, one hand in my hair.

"I didn't choose anybody over you, Bella. I made mistakes. I got myself stuck in a really bad situation. It was stupid, but I didn't think I was hurting anybody but myself. I thought I was just doing what I had to do to survive. But then there was you… and you were so… God, you were so damned beautiful and sweet and the way you looked at me… You said you'd do anything, and that's when I knew I was such a piece of shit. I couldn't do it to you. I couldn't stay and drag you down with me. It _never_ would have been okay. They'd have disowned you when they found out about me and who I was. And I couldn't let you throw everything away for me. You would have given it all up for me. All your opportunities, Brown… your whole future."

I nod, because he's right. I would have. Gladly. God, I still feel like I could.

"I'm sorry—so sorry that I hurt you. But leaving was the one decent thing I could still do, so I did it. You had everything going for you. I told myself that you'd be just fine. Happy, maybe, if I just stayed the hell away from you. Then that night at the Frick, I could see that you aren't happy…"

He drags in a deep shuddering breath just as mine hitches on my exhale. My eyes are burning with tears as I struggle to breathe. Everything he's saying is like a sledgehammer to the walls I've spent so much time building up. All the longing and want, he felt it, too. All the times I missed him, he missed me too. How can I possibly say no to that?

I can't. I could have dealt with my desire, and held it all back, but I can't deny his, too.

Edward kisses my cheek again and lingers, his lips warm on my skin. He whispers against the side of my face. "I'm still all wrong and I'll still ruin everything, but I'm tired of being miserable and I think you are, too. Can we try? Let me try to make you happy, Bella."

Another little strangled sound breaks loose from the back of my throat before his lips find mine again. And then I can breathe again. I can let out my breath, and when I do, everything in me goes slack. Every muscle melts into him just the way every wall comes down. I reach up and curl my fingers into his hair and he sighs into me, too.

It's one long tangle of hands and fingers and tongues as we hold each other in the middle of Edward's studio. Then he begins to move backwards, pulling me with him, his hand on my back and his fingers cupping my neck. His mouth never leaves mine as he slowly backs across the room. I don't resist at all. I'm done with that. I just let him tug me along because I know where he's taking me.

When he reaches the futon, he stops and digs both hands into my hair, kissing me deeply, holding onto me tightly. I let him. All I can do is hang onto him. I've never felt so awake, like every nerve ending in my body is tingling and alive. No one but Edward has ever made me respond like this. His shoulders are tense under my hands, his body is stretched taut against me.

Edward lifts his head a bit, just enough to look me in the eye. His mouth is slightly open, his bottom lip is wet from my tongue. His eyes are half-closed and gentle. Reverent. That's what I see in his face when he looks at me, cradling my face in his hands.

"Stay with me," he murmurs. I never look away from him as I reach up and trace the edge of his face, running my fingers over his temple and cheekbone, touching him the way I always wished I could.

I nod. "Yes."

His eyes slide closed and he kisses me again, soft and gentle this time. His fingers slip off my face, down my neck, tracing my collarbones, dragging over my shoulders, barely skimming the sides of my breasts. I stand stock-still, almost trembling, as his hands make their way to my waist, to the fastening of my dress that's there. He's watching me again as he undoes it, as it falls open in front. Then his eyes drop to look at me, exposed in just my lingerie. I let him look as I stroke his jawline with my fingertips, not feeling bare or uncomfortable at all. His eyes roam all over me, like he's memorizing every inch of skin he can see. I think of Edward's paintings, the ones he says are about me, and I wonder what his eyes are seeing when he's looking at me. I wonder what I become in his head in this moment, what colors I am, and what shapes I feel like to him.

"Bella," he says on an exhale. His hands come slowly back up to my shoulders, his fingers wrapping around the fabric of my dress and sliding it down my arms. I let go of his face and let my arms hang loose at my side. My dress slips down and free. Edward drinks me in, taking his time, looking at all of me, before reaching out for my hips and pulling me towards him.

He's been dressed long enough. I'm ready to feel his skin against mine. My hands go to the front of his shirt, tugging at the buttons. His hands join mine, tangling together as we fight the shirt off him. I push it back off his shoulders, sliding my palms down his arms as I go.

So long. I have thought so long about touching him like this, and I thought I never would. His skin is warm and my hands make whispering sounds as they slide back up to his shoulders.

He reaches up and takes my hands in his. Then he turns, pivoting me, until my calves touch the futon near the floor. His eyes meet mine with a silent question. Without a word, I sink down until I'm sitting on the edge. He folds himself up and follows me down, his hands splayed on the mattress on either side of my hips. His mouth comes down on mine and I grip his hair again. We fall back, his body stretching out over me, as his tongue pushes into my mouth again. He shifts me under him until we're laid out, until I'm wrapped around him and he's wrapped around me. My heart is pounding, but not with nerves or fear or even anticipation. It's only bliss, the peaceful, euphoric rightness of Edward laying over me, of Edward's hands sliding down my body, cupping fullness, touching curves and hollows, of Edward's mouth on mine over and over.

I feel his hand sliding up my side, around my shoulder, and up my arm until it closes over my hand, tangled in the back of his hair. He pulls my fingers free and lowers my hand between us. He raises his face from mine so that he can look at me, pinning me with his dark, fierce eyes. His fingers brush across the ring on my left hand.

"Take this off," he murmurs, never looking away from me.

Without a word or a hesitation, I slide it off my hand. His fingers close over it and pluck it away, reaching out to drop it on the overturned milk crate next to the futon.

His hand comes back to mine, his fingers lacing with mine. He takes my other hand the same way and then pins them down on either side of my head, holding himself slightly up off me. His heavy russet hair is falling forward over his forehead, casting shadows over his face in the dying light of the late afternoon.

"You're not going to marry him," he says, his lips barely moving around the words.

I shake my head, looking back at him, clear-eyed and sure. "No, I'm not."

"No, you're not," he growls, before lowering his weight back down on me, pressing his mouth to mine.

We move fast after that. It's an urgent tumble towards each other, pushing off the last of our clothes, pulling each other closer, until Edward is poised over me and I'm open and ready under him. When he finally sinks into me, I arch up underneath him. He slides his hands down and around my body, pulling me in close as a shudder moves through him.

"Fuck," he whispers. "I knew. I knew how it would be with you."

I moan at his words, thinking of him thinking of me. Then he moves inside of me and I can't think of anything anymore, I can only feel. Because I knew how it would be, too. From the first moment that he touched me, I knew how it would be if we ever came together like this.

And now that we are, it's all that and more.

It feels so good, so much better than it ever has, that it's almost like I've never done this before. But it's more than just how it feels. It's how it sounds and how he touches me. It's how every moan and sigh we make is like we're talking to each other—like our bodies are speaking, and not just skin-to-skin. Every little move he makes, every touch or clutch, makes me respond, makes my skin burn and my heart pound. I feel so intensely alive. I've been with other men, but now I know. All those other times, only my body was involved. With Edward, it's all of me; every bit of my body, mind and heart. He takes it all and gives me back all of himself.

The sun dips behind the buildings and the room turns bright gold around us as we gasp and cling to each other and drive ourselves on. I'm taut and ready, desperate to go, but I want to go with him. I want to feel how it is when he unravels, too. Edward hooks his arms under my shoulders and winds his fingers into my hair. He turns my face to his as he picks up the tempo. The sensation rips right through me and I gasp, hanging onto his shoulders for dear life.

It's so intense that I'm almost scared. But Edward doesn't let me retreat into my own head. He holds my eyes with his, his gaze steady, burning . His face is just inches above mine, his mouth open as he heaves each breath.

"Bella… Christ…" he gasps.

Another push and I'm there, splintering like the sunset in the glass all around us. I throw my head back and let it sweep through me. I hear Edward groan, I feel him shake, I feel him hold me impossibly tighter as he rocks me through his own release.

And we float. We're lost in our own haze of bliss but we're also touching down the length of our joined bodies, still connected. I feel my pulse in every inch of my skin. I feel Edward's pulse in my skin, too. Slowly, we relax into each other and the bed. Edward slides to my side, but never releases me. I curl into him, tucking my head under his chin, breathing in the scent of his warm body.

It's pleasure and comfort, the ease of an old ache and the bloom of new euphoria. But most of all, it's peace. Finally, peace.

*0*0*

**A/N: **

FashionistaJR at FanFic Heaven interviewed me about The Art Teacher a couple of weeks ago. You can read it here (remove the spaces):

http : / fanficheaven . blogspot . com/2010/12/interview-with-spanglemaker9-author-of . html

Thanks to feathersmmmm for recc'ing TAT in her latest chapter of _Edward Wallbanger_, and to mamasutra in the author's note of her story, _Perhaps Not to Be._

And thanks to all the folks mentioning and recc'ing TAT on twitter and various blogs and forums!

Not gonna lie, the holidays were rough for me. I'm further behind in writing than I'd like to be. I might not update weekly until I feel like I've gotten my equilibrium back. Thanks for being patient.

Oh, and a recc, if you're still reading this! S_ins of the Piano Man_ by solareclipses- a lovely AU with an Edward that I just adore and a Bella that breaks my heart.


	9. Come Apart and Go Black

**WhatsMyNomdePlume beta'd this all the way on the other side of the world.**

*0*0*

I wake up to the feeling of kisses across my back and over my shoulder. I'm lying partially on my stomach and I can feel the warmth and weight of Edward's body angling over me. I can feel the tickle of his hair on my shoulder and the scrape of his stubble on my skin as he leans over me, kissing me awake. I turn my face toward him and sigh. His hand is on my hip, rubbing and kneading. It's making me want him again already.

Last night was a long blur of flesh and sex, holding and whispering. I'm not even sure when we fell asleep. It didn't matter, because we just woke up in the dark and started all over. But now it's daylight and Edward's loft is filled with morning light. No hiding from it. I don't want to. For the first time in as long as I can remember, waking up is pure pleasure.

Edward tugs on my hip, rolling me onto my back. He wastes no time ducking his head to my neck, kissing and nipping at me. I sigh and reach up to wrap my arms around his head, holding him to me. His hands are all over me, my waist, my ribs, my breasts. Then one is between my legs and I throw my head back and gasp. He groans and shifts over me, moving me under him until he's got me where he wants me. When he pushes into me this time, it's slower and gentler than the night before. We barely move, just rocking against each other until we both quietly come apart. Afterwards, Edward rolls onto his back, keeping one arm under my shoulders and pulling me into his side.

"Good God," he sighs.

"Mmm," is all I can say in reply.

I hear a muffled ping and my stomach drops. Even from far away, I know that sound is my phone and someone is looking for me. The weight of my life descends back onto me and I burrow my face into Edward's shoulder. We've been floating along on this island all night, but it's not where I live.

"Hey," he says, sensing the shift in me. He turns part-way onto his side to face me. "It's going to be okay."

I nod, keeping my face pressed against him. I kiss his chest and he sighs, rubbing one hand up and down my arm.

I need to go get my phone and see who else has called and when. "Fuck," I mutter. "What time is it?"

"Uh…" Edward rolls away and fishes his own phone from the middle of a pile of our clothes on the floor. "It's ten. Five after."

"Shit. I have a thing."

"A thing?" He chuckles. "You have a _thing_?"

I shake my head. "Just my financial advisor. There are some papers I need to sign. About my trust. I'm supposed to be there at eleven. It's no big deal, but I've rescheduled three times already so I really need to go."

"Okay…" Edward says slowly, flopping onto his back and running a hand over his face. The air turns tense now that I've mentioned my lawyer and my trust fund. Stupid fucking money. I hate the walls it always seems to build around me.

"So you need to go then," he says.

"Yeah," I sigh. "Plus… I need to…"

Edward rolls back to face me, curling his arm around my shoulder again. "You need to talk to him."

"I do."

"You do. So go do that and then come back here to me."

He's smiling now, tugging me closer. He makes it sound so easy. Just go end my engagement and scamper back into bed with him. It won't work like that, but all the same, it needs to be done. But I don't want to talk about how hard and ugly it will be, so I just smile and kiss his chest again and try to keep it light. "I like the sound of that."

He chuckles and I feel it rumble through him. His fingertips trace up and down my spine slowly. "Tell you what, you get yourself put together and I'll run out and get you some coffee and breakfast. I'm pretty sure I have no food here."

I sigh. "Okay."

"The bathroom is over there." He points to a door in the corner. "I'm sorry; this place isn't exactly zoned for residency, so it's a little… um…"

He reaches a hand up and digs his fingers into his hair. He sounds embarrassed and awkward, so I put my fingertips over his mouth to stop him. "It's fine."

He smiles against my fingers and it makes me smile back. My eyes eat him up—the stubbly jaw, the messed-up hair, the little flecks of dark in his green eyes that I can only see when I'm this close to him.

He grabs my wrist, kisses my fingertips, and then heaves himself up and out of bed. My sanctuary is officially disturbed and I feel colder already. I lie on my side and watch him get dressed. There isn't any part of Edward that isn't flawless. I'm drawn in by all the same features I remember from before—his broad shoulders, his lightly-muscled back, his narrow hips. But now I have new memories, of my hands all over those muscles, those hips pressed tight against mine, and that body pushing me down into the bed, and I flush all over.

If I thought Edward was under my skin before, it's nothing compared to what I feel now. He's all I want to know for as long as I live. And now he wants me too. I can't wrap my brain around the enormity of what's happened, can't conceive of how things will be now. All I know is that I'll be with him. We'll be together. It's what he says he wants, and I know it's what I want. The rest just doesn't matter. That's what I'll focus on as I navigate my way through what waits for me. The awful conversations I'll have to have and the fury that's sure to rain down on me—I'll just stay focused on Edward and do what I need to do.

Edward shrugs into a t-shirt he fishes off the floor, then turns and leans over the bed. I push up on one arm. He slides his hand around the back of my neck and pulls my face up to him. "I'll be right back," he whispers, before pressing a kiss on my mouth.

Then he's gone and I'm alone in my own head, which is never good. I retrieve my bag and look at my phone and my chest contracts. Half a dozen missed calls from Alec, starting last night when we were supposed to have dinner and I just failed to show up or call. I can't imagine what the fall-out from that will be. Another three missed calls from my mother. Two from Alice. I don't even look at the texts. I turn it back off and drop it in my bag. I can't deal with that yet. I don't want to.

I'm on my way to the tiny bathroom when I spot the bright glare of Alec's ring on the crate next to the bed. I don't let myself think on it too much and I don't think about Edward sliding it from my finger yesterday. I just tuck it into my bag to be dealt with later, along with everything else.

Edward wasn't exaggerating about his bathroom—it's not even really a bathroom. There's a drain in the floor and a big slop sink on one wall. There's a shower stall with no shower curtain. It probably used to be white, but now it's largely rust-stained. I repress my Upper East Side urge to shudder as I close my eyes and rinse off quickly.

When I'm done, I pull my wet hair back in a low ponytail with a hair tie I find in the bottom of my bag and use the little bit of makeup I have in there to throw myself together as best as I can. My dress has spent the night on the floor and it shows, but that can't be helped. As soon as I am done at my lawyer's, I'll sneak back home for a real shower and a change of clothes.

And then… I don't know what comes next. I feel like I've just taken the last step off the high dive board and I'm suspended in mid-air for a split second just before gravity takes over and pulls me under the water.

I'm fastening my dress and stepping back into my heels when the metal sliding door screeches open.

"I'm going to have to take it with me," I call out to Edward, straightening the skirt of my dress. "Do you think I can catch a cab downstairs or should I call for car service?"

I look up and there's a woman standing in the open doorway looking back at me, her face carefully blank. There's a long moment when we just stare at each other.

"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "I didn't realize Edward had a guest."

My mind races to make sense of this scenario, and then the answer begins to bloom in my chest, cold and hard.

"Did you… how did you get in?" It's the only question I can think to ask as I struggle to comprehend what's happening.

She laughs and it's a hard, jaded sound. "How did I get in? Sweetheart, I own the building."

My pulse pounds in my ears. _Her building_. That Edward is living in. My stomach twists so hard that it hurts. All that was supposed to be over. He did it four years ago, in another lifetime. But here's this woman in a very expensive trench coat, pocketing a set of keys on a Tiffany horseshoe key-ring and it's all telling me that it wasn't another lifetime. It's right now.

She narrows her eyes at me a little, like she's trying to place me. "You're Philip Dwyer's daughter, aren't you?" She looks a little familiar to me too. I've seen her before, I just can't think where. She's older than me, but it's hard to tell how much, since she's so well-maintained, just the way my mother and Mimi Weigert are. Then it hits me. She was with Mimi Weigert when I met her years ago. In Edward's gallery. Her name is Tori. Her long red hair was poker-straight then and it's softly curled now. Her face is unchanged, though. She's beautiful, even through her hard veneer.

I don't answer, but she seems confident that she's right. She cocks an eyebrow at me, appraising me. I still haven't moved. I feel like I'm made of lead.

"How very enterprising of him," she says. She's not smiling any more. In fact, she looks a little bleak. "Although I suppose I can hardly blame him for wanting to work out a permanent arrangement with someone, especially when she's also young and pretty."

Her words—assuming and very possibly true—are what it takes to shake me loose. I snatch my bag up off the bed and sprint for the door. She takes her time stepping to the side, and I almost hit her in my desperation to make it out the door. My heels make a terrible racket on the steel stairs, but I don't stop until I'm out on the street. There's a cab just turning onto the block and he nearly hits me as I fling myself halfway into the street to flag him down. I tumble into the back and spit out the first address I think of.

Once the cab is moving, I fall back on the seat and close my eyes. My breath is coming in short little gasps and I can't seem to get my lungs to fill, not even a little bit. My whole body feels like it's caving in on itself. I want to cave with it, and just keep folding in on myself until I'm not even here anymore.

I'm still gasping for air but I don't cry. My throat hurts like I am, but my eyes stay dry. Maybe I've cried all the tears I can cry in one lifetime for Edward, and now I'm just done. I fold in half, pressing my forehead against my knees, and I just concentrate on breathing.

_I can hardly blame him for wanting to work out a permanent arrangement._

Her words keep ringing in my ears. I can't believe that's what I am to him. Whatever he is, all the ways in which he's compromised himself and sunk low, I still can't believe he wanted me for my money. The way he looked at me and touched me, the things he said… it couldn't have just been about my money.

Maybe I'm being naïve. Everybody I know would tell me that's exactly what he wants. When I look at it the way they would, I can see it plainly. I remember Edward peeling off my engagement ring. _"You're not going to marry him."_ It sounds different now, in light of what she said. I feel sick. I want to be out of this cab, but I need to get somewhere— off the streets where it's quiet. I need space and air so I can catch a breath and figure out what the fuck just happened to me.

The cab pulls up in front of my lawyer's office and only then do I realize that's the address I gave him when I climbed in. I'm all the way downtown, miles from my parents' apartment. I thrust a handful of cash at the driver, far too much for the fare, and beg him to take me home.

As I lie back on the seat and wait the additional twenty minutes it takes to get back to the Upper East Side, I feel my hands shaking on my lap. I can hear the rush of my blood in my ears. Every nerve of my body feels scrubbed raw. I might not be falling apart in the conventional way, but it's clear that I'm not okay. Something is fundamentally shifting in my head.

For four years, Edward has ruled me, and I feel him start to slip on his foundation. I built him up too large. I hooked my whole being to the illusion of him that I carried in my head. And then I wrecked myself on the rocks of his memory, only to fall right back under his spell when he reappeared. I've been crazy and so blind.

I remember the night at the Frick, when I asked Edward if he deserved me and he said "no". It's breaking my heart wide open to realize that he might be right.

The cab pulls up to our building and Santiago is there to open my door. I don't look at him; I just step out of the cab and head for the door, eyes on the ground.

"Bella."

My head snaps up in time to see Edward stepping from behind one of the potted box hedges flanking the door. He's at my side in two long strides. I twist and stumble back to avoid his hands, reaching out for me. He must have left right after I did and come straight here to beat me back. He looks wrecked. His eyes are frantic and his skin is ashen.

Edward has stormed like Goliath through my mind for years— super-human and larger than life. Now he's standing in front of me as what he always has been; just a man. An entirely human, flawed man. The betrayal is ripping me up, but there's something more, something deeper. The thing, the man I've clung to for so long has been just an illusion. And now, in some way, I feel like one, too. Nothing is what I thought it was. Not even my connection to him, the one thing I was so sure of. I don't even know him.

Edward takes another step towards me and all I can do is close my eyes and stagger back again. I can't deal with this. I can't look at him because all I can see is last night and him when all I _should_ see is this morning and her. _That's_ what's important.

"You need to leave," I mutter, turning away and taking a step towards the door. His hand closes around my upper arm, holding me back.

"Just let me explain…"

"I don't want to hear it!" My voice is so loud and angry that it shocks me. I fling my arm up and it breaks his hold on me. Santiago is on alert and at my side in an instant.

"Is there a problem, Miss Dwyer?"

"No problem," Edward interjects before I can speak. "I just need to talk to Isabella." His eyes cut back to me and he reaches out again. "Bella, please… It wasn't what you're thinking."

"Does she own that building?"

His jaw snaps closed and his eyes go wide with surprise. Then he looks at the ground while a little muscle in his jaw twitches. He doesn't say anything, but that's all the answer I need.

"Then there's nothing else to discuss." I start to turn back to the door, but he steps forward, grabbing my arm again.

"Damn it, will you just let me talk to you about this?" His voice is loud and Santiago immediately steps between us, pushing on Edward's chest, breaking his hold on me.

"Listen, friend, Miss Dwyer told you to go, so you need to go now," Santiago says firmly.

Edward tries to swat his hands away. "Bella, please, just talk to me!"

Santiago pushes harder and Edward starts to shove back. I'm terrified that it's about to devolve into a fight. I step forward, hoping to diffuse whatever's about to happen.

"Isabella? Is there a problem out here?"

I spin to see my mother in the open doorway of the building. She's dressed to go out. She's pushed her over-sized sunglasses to the top of her head and now she's examining the scene playing out on the sidewalk in front of our building: Santiago physically pushing Edward away; Edward, disheveled and shouting; and me… God only knows how I look right now.

"Everything's fine," I say in a monotone, willing her to go back inside and not make this any worse.

"It's Mr. Cullen, isn't it?" she says, focusing on him, her voice icy.

"He was just leaving," I snap.

"Bella!" Edward tries again, but I don't even look at him this time. I ignore the pounding in my chest every time I hear his voice. I need to get out of here and away from him.

"Mr. Cullen," she says slowly, "I hope you haven't come to our private residence to harass my daughter. That would be extremely unwise of you."

"I _came_ to talk to _Bella_. This is none of your business," he snaps, his distaste for my mother dripping from his voice.

"My daughter _is_ my business."

He snorts in derision.

"I think we're done here, Mr. Cullen. You'd better go inside, Isabella," she says to me, but never taking her eyes off him.

The last thing I want to do is obey my mother, but even more than that, I want to escape this situation and get away from Edward. So I just nod tightly and slide past her into the vestibule. She turns to follow me, but stops to speak to Santiago over her shoulder.

"If Mr. Cullen comes here again, call the police and report him for trespassing," she says. I catch one last glimpse of Edward over her shoulder. His face is bleak, his eyes are frantic. He's still staring a hole through me. My mother wraps her hand around my arm as she passes me, her nails digging into my skin, and she propels me with her into the elevator.

She's quiet all the way up because there are security cameras in the elevator, and it wouldn't do to air our dirty laundry where someone could see. But once the door slides closed behind us and we're in the foyer of the apartment, she rounds on me, her eyes flashing, her face furious.

"What the hell were you thinking, Isabella? What was that little scene?"

I close my eyes and my shoulders sag. I feel on the edge of collapse. I'm so tired, and I'm empty inside. There's nothing left to draw on. "It's none of your business," I mutter, rubbing my fingertips across my forehead. "And it's nothing. Nothing at all."

"You're damned right it's nothing!" she shouts, still shaking with anger. "You're just lucky it was me that caught you, not Alec or you'd have a much bigger mess on your hands, young lady."

I shake my head blindly. "That doesn't matter."

"Doesn't _matter_?" she sputters in disbelief. "You can bet it would matter to Alec. But we're going to keep this quiet and you're going to stay the hell away from that man and with any luck, everything's going to be fine."

I finally open my eyes to look at her because what she's saying seems so absolutely absurd to me. "There's nothing to keep quiet about, because I'm not marrying Alec."

She scoffs and snatches her sunglasses off her head and flings them onto the side table in frustration. I get the uneasy feeling that she'd much rather be unleashing that aggression on me. "Don't be dramatic, Isabella. Of course you're going to marry Alec. You've had your fun with your little artist boy. Now that you've got that fit of rebellion out of your system, I hope I can trust you to use a little more discretion in the future. I mean, really, spending the night with him? Are you stupid?"

I stare at her for a minute, at her angry, cynical face, hard and still so beautiful, and I let the words sink in. She thinks I'm just going to quietly marry Alec as if nothing happened. In her mind, nothing did happen. Nothing of note, anyway. Edward is just a mild transgression that I'm expected to file away and forget. She probably wouldn't even care if I kept doing it, as long as I was discreet and no one found out.

I finally understand. I finally see the gaping chasm between who she is and who I am. There is no way to ever bridge it; there's nothing at all connecting us, in spite of the blood we share. She doesn't love me. On some level, I've always known and accepted that. I made do with what I had, because my only other option was to face the world entirely alone. But that's exactly what I've always done, just the same.

I can't do this anymore. I can't keep trying to live this life she's crafted for herself, that she's expecting me to live along with her. Not when it means sacrificing myself so completely, not if it means turning into her.

Maybe it's because of what's just happened. I'm already entirely wrecked, so I've lost all sense of self-preservation. Nothing has any meaning at the moment. Maybe that's what finally frees me to let it all out. Whatever it is, when I open my mouth, ten years of hurt and fury come pouring out before I can stop it.

"Stupid?" I spit, and the venom in my voice surprises even me. "Yes, I guess I was stupid. I've been so _stupid_ to go on living here with you when you have never and will never give a shit about me. I'm not going to marry Alec just to help you cement your position here, Renee. Because that's why you care so much, right? I'm your little insurance policy for the day Phil gets sick of you and trades you in for a woman half your age. You might lose _your_ meal ticket, but I'd still have one for you. Am I getting this right? Well, I'm sorry to continue to be such a disappointment to you, but you're all alone in that pathetic endeavor from now on."

Her hand snakes out so fast that I don't even see it coming. I only feel the sharp sting of her palm on my cheek and the cracking sound it makes. My head snaps to the side at the impact and I stagger back a step. It doesn't hurt much yet, I'm just stunned. Nobody's ever hit me before. It should be no surprise to me that my mother is the one to do it, but somehow I am still shocked she resorted to violence. She doesn't give me much time to absorb the blow before she starts screaming.

"Pathetic?" she roars, her pretty face twisted up with rage. "My position that you're so scornful of has done an awful lot for you, you ungrateful little bitch! Everything single thing you own, all the clothes on your back, your precious expensive Ivy League degree… _our_ money paid for every bit of that!"

"I never wanted _any_ of that shit!" I scream back at her. My adrenaline is surging back after her smack and I'm burning up with fury. "I only ever wanted a parent that gave a shit whether I lived or died!" I'm fisting my hands so hard that I can feel my fingernails cutting into my palms. But I don't care. There's no way I'd hold a word of this back. "My only mistake was thinking that person could ever be you. You showed me what a crap mother you were when you walked out on us and never looked back. I don't know why I ever hoped you could change. I don't think you can love anyone but yourself. I bet you don't even love Phil, do you?" She startles slightly and her eyes go wide. I know I hit the mark. I shake my head in disbelief. "Believe it or not, I feel sorry for him. He deserves better than you."

"You listen to me, Isabella…" Her anger flares again and she steps forward, her hand closing down around my arm. But I wrench it away from her with more force than I knew I had. I take one threatening half-step towards her and she stumbles back a little in surprise. We stand there staring at each other for one long tense moment, the vitriol still swirling in the air. Finally, I back up a step and shove my thumb against the button for the elevator. It hasn't left yet and the door slides open behind me.

"No, _you_ listen," I say through my clenched teeth. Every inch of my body is shaking like a leaf now, but I hang on to my nerves until I can get it all out. "You've resented me for years for messing up your life, for showing up here reminding you every day of who you really are. Hell, you resent the fact that I even fucking _exist_. Well, no worries, _Mom_. I'm finished here. I'm finished with you and Phil and all your lousy fucking money. All it's ever done is make me miserable. Your wish just came true. You don't have a daughter anymore. We're done."

Her sculpted face gets even harder as she grinds her teeth together. "Where the hell do you think you're going to go?"

I step into the elevator and reach out for the lobby button. "That's no longer any business of yours."

The elevator door slides shut while she's still standing there formulating her response. I hold my breath, and hold myself together, all the way down to the lobby. I tentatively reach up to touch my face and it still stings. When I draw back my hand, there's a tiny smear of blood on my fingertips. The diamonds that studded the band of her wedding ring must have scratched me. I let out a long, shaking breath. I feel brittle, like I've fractured all over and the slightest puff of air will send me flying apart into a million shards. Downstairs, I walk straight through the lobby and out onto the now-empty sidewalk. I move fast, walking west, desperate to just gain some physical distance between me and the scene of utter destruction I just left in my wake.

After I practically run three blocks, I stop and lean against a building, panting for breath, my hand against my face. I don't know where I'm going. I don't have anywhere to go. The enormity of what I've just done hits me like a freight train. My chest is burning and I'm still shaking from head to toe. I fumble for my phone and call the one person in the world I know I can still trust.

"Isabella? Where the hell have you been?"

"Alice? I'm in trouble. I need…" I trail off because I have no idea what I need. Time, space, help, freedom.

"Where are you?" she says, her voice frantic.

I shake my head, "Doesn't matter. I'm not staying. I just need someplace to hide out for a bit. Someplace private."

There's silence on the line for a minute as Alice processes and thinks. Finally she says, "The W Hotel on Park, off Union Square. Head there. My family has an account. I'll call ahead and set it up. I'll be there soon, Iss."

"Thank you, Alice."

"Hang in there, sweetie. Whatever it is, you're going to be okay."

"I know I will," I tell her, before turning to the curb and hailing a cab.

*0*0*

**A/N: **Whew. Deep breaths, everyone. This story is now written in its entirety, so please trust that I have a plan. :)

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I have a few thanks/announcements, if you'll bear with me. It seems to be awards season in the fandom and some lovely people have nominated some of my stories for awards. Go check out the entries and vote! For all websites, remove the spaces.

_The Art Teacher_ is nominated for Best Kiss and Best All-Human Story in The Hidden Star Awards. http : /thehiddenstarawards . blogspot . com

_The Art Teacher_ is nominated for Best "I totally thought they were going to get it on and they didn't. Damn" and _The Wedding Party_ is nominated for "Safe Sex Can Be Sexy, Too" in The Golden Lemon Awards. http : /www . goldenlemonawards . com/

And finally, Girl with a Red Umbrella, which I co-authored, is nominated for the Cosplay Queen Award (Best Period fic) in The Twinklings Walk of Fame Awards. http : /twinklingswfa . blogspot . com/

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I need to thank Loss4Words, nerac, and Kassiah for their lovely recc of The Art Teacher on The Fictionators. If you don't know it, you should check out that site. It's one of my faves. http : /www . fictionators . com/

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I promise, I'm about to shut up! I'm also co-hosting the FicAPic one-shot contest. We've got some great entries so far, so I hope you'll go read the entries and come back later to vote on your favorite!

http : /www . fanfiction . net/~ficapiccontest


	10. Leaving Silence

**WhatsMyNomdePlume is my super-awesome beta.**

*0*0*

By the time Alice reaches me, I'm holed up in a suite at the W Hotel, perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the dark TV. She lets herself in quietly and drops her bag by the door. I don't look, but I can feel her approach me. Her hand comes down on my shoulder.

"What happened, Iss?"

I shake my head. "I don't even know where to start."

"Is this about Edward?"

"Yes. No. Not all of it."

"Alec called me looking for you. And your mother. Were you with him?"

I nod. She's silent, but there's absolutely no judgment.

"But now you're here, so…" I'm grateful that Alice asks just the right questions to drag it out of me, or else I'd probably never be able to say it on my own.

"A woman came in as I was leaving Edward's place. She had a key." My voice is quiet and flat. It gives no hint of the devastation of that moment, but Alice doesn't need that to know it. She sucks in a harsh breath.

I inhale deeply too, so I can continue. "She's his…" I raise my hands to gesture and then drop them helplessly back into my lap. "I'm not sure what the word is for it."

"Are you sure? What did he say?"

"He wasn't there. But she owns the building. He didn't deny that when I saw him later. She's friends with Mimi Weigert. I was there when they met."

Alice crosses around in front of me and reaches out for my shoulders. She gasps when she sees my face.

"Jesus, who hit you?"

I reach up and brush my fingers across my cheekbone. I'd forgotten about that. It doesn't hurt until I touch it, but when I do, it throbs a little. It doesn't feel all that bad, though. "My mother. That was part two."

Alice falls forward, onto her knees in front of me, clutching both of my hands in hers. "You better start at the beginning. Tell me everything."

So I do. I tell her all about Edward and his loft. I leave out the specifics, but she knows something amazing happened last night, only to be blown to bits by the horrible thing that happened this morning. It gets harder to talk once I get to the part at our apartment; the ugly confrontation on the street, and then the fight upstairs that went nuclear.

Alice is Alice, quiet and listening all the way through. She just holds my hands and listens to me talk. She moves off the floor to sit next to me on the bed, sliding one arm around my shoulders.

When I'm all finished, she just hugs me and rubs my arm. "What are you going to do?" she asks.

"I need to make a couple of phone calls. Then I'll know where I stand. But I can't do it today. Right now, I just want… I want to stop for a while."

Alice drops her hands down on her thighs. "Well, I can provide some oblivion, if that's what you need."

She gets up and retrieves her bag off the floor. She produces a little brown pill bottle and shakes out a couple of capsules. "I grabbed these from my mother's bathroom. Sometimes, you need a little oblivion in pill form."

When she holds them out to me, I hesitate for a minute. This is the kind of thing my mother does, washing away her life in a haze of questionable prescription drugs.

Alice tips her head to the side. "Iss, it's one night. Take them and go to bed. It will all look better in the morning. Well, it won't look as desperate, anyway."

I sigh and take the pills and wash them down with a bottle of water. Half an hour later they kick in and I collapse across the bed. This long nightmarish day finally ends.

When I wake up, it's mid-morning the next day. Alice has left a note on my pillow, telling me she's gone to run an errand, but that she'll be back soon. I crawl out of bed and drag my bag into the bathroom. I have to face the day and reality, and the first thing I need to do is shower off the horror of yesterday.

As I'm rooting around in my bag, I find my phone. There are dozens of alerts. The last two are from my mother, the two before that are from Alec. I don't scroll back any farther to see if any of them are from Edward. Instead, I pull the SIM card and drop it in the toilet before tossing the shell of the phone into the trash.

A scalding shower later, I'm wrapped in the hotel robe combing my fingers through my wet hair. I feel oddly detached, not nearly as decimated as I thought I'd feel, like I'm watching all of these events from a little distance. Maybe I'm still fuzzy from the drugs, or maybe I've just slipped into some alternate state of reality. Whatever it is, I'm grateful for the numbness. I can't be a crying, trembling girl. Not anymore.

I curl up in the armchair and pull the hotel phone into my lap, punching in the numbers from a business card in my wallet.

"Client Services, how may I help you?" The smooth, generic voice asks me.

"Jim Jenks, please."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Isabella Dwyer," I say, working the power of my name one last time.

She pauses for a second, and then, "Please hold, Ms. Dwyer."

Moments later, Jim Jenks, my financial advisor, comes on the line. "Ms. Dwyer! I'm so sorry you couldn't make it in yesterday."

"Yeah, I apologize for that. Yesterday just…got away from me."

"It's not a problem," he says. Of course it isn't. Nothing we ever do is a problem, no matter how much it inconveniences him. "Shall we reschedule?"

"That won't be necessary. I just need some information."

He hesitates. "Of course," he says. "Whatever I can do for you."

"I need to know how much I have. Just me."

There's another confused pause. "The entire trust is at your disposal, Ms. Dwyer. The last age restriction was lifted when you graduated from college."

"No," I say, shaking my head, even though he can't see me, "Not the trust. Not Phil's money. _Mine._ The money I came here with. From my father. I know there was a little."

He clears his throat at my unexpected request. "Ah, I see. It's been some time, so I'll have to look into it. I believe there was a life insurance policy. Possibly a pension annuity. And of course, the house."

"House?"

"The house your… father owned. I'm skimming a brief summary of your assets and it appears to still be in your holdings."

This is news to me. Images flood my memory, of the little white house I grew up in. All this time, I left it behind with my fuzzy memories of Washington and my father and my childhood. It seems odd that it's still there, and almost unreal that I own it after all this time.

For the first time since yesterday, I feel something besides misery. Maybe it's just an illusion, but remembering that house makes me feel safe, and I know in an instant what I'm going to do. It's really the only thing I can do.

"I see," is all I say, but my mind is furiously making plans.

"I'll have to do a little number-crunching to give you a figure. Can I call you back in an hour?"

"I'll call you. I'll need you to transfer those funds to a new account, but I need to get a few things taken care of first."

I'm saying goodbye to Jim when I hear the door lock click. Alice sidles in with a navy plastic bag on one arm. She lifts it by way of hello.

"I know it's just the Gap, but it was right downstairs, so I popped in and got you a change of clothes. I figured you wouldn't want to go home."

I can't help but chuckle as I fall back in my chair. "No, no going back home. Thanks, sweetie."

"I'll call Connie at Saks and have her send over some real clothes for you."

I shake my head. "No Saks. The Gap is perfect. Really."

Alice gives me a look, but lets it go.

"So," she says slowly, "What do you want to do?"

I take a deep breath and sit up straight. "I need to go see Alec. I can't avoid that any more. And then there's some business I have to take care of."

"Business?"

"So I'm independent," I explain, stalling before I break it to her. It's so new in my head that it hardly seems real. "I'm going back to Washington."

Alice just blinks at me, like she's not sure she heard me right. "Washington D.C.?"

"Washington state. I grew up there."

"But who are you going to visit now? It's been years."

I take a deep breath before I speak again. "I'm not going to visit. I'm going to live."

Alice just stares. Then, "Why on earth are you doing _that_?"

"It's where I'm from, Alice."

She blinks some more. "Yeah, like _ten years_ ago, maybe. Isabella, you live_ here_."

"I _lived_ with my mother and Phil. But that's done. I'm on my own now."

"But why do you have to go all the way back to Washington? You can stay with me! Your whole life is here!"

I smile and shake my head. "I know, Alice. And thank you. But that's the problem. This _life_ is the problem. I need to get away from New York and the money and just… _everything_. So I'm going back to the beginning to see if I can figure things out. I don't know if I'll stay there. Fuck… I don't know _anything_ at this point. But I have a house there so I'm going."

Alice looks at me for another long moment. "If you're sure…"

"I am."

"Okay, then," she sighs. "But Jesus, I'm going to miss you." She starts to cry, and that sets me off. The next thing I know, we're holding each other on the bed and I'm sobbing. It all gangs up on me at once. Edward, my mother, leaving Alice behind… The drugs have worn off and the shower has loosened all my clenched muscles and I can't hold it inside anymore. I let it all out and Alice cries, too. She pulls it together pretty quickly, but I keep crying like I'll never stop, until my eyes are swollen and burning and my throat is raw.

When we're both spent, I lie back on the bed next to her and rub the heels of my palms into my eyes.

"I could come with you," she says softly.

I'm touched to the bottom of my soul by her kindness. She really is the best person I've ever met. But I shake my head. "You have a life here, Alice. And you can't put it all on hold just to take care of me. I need to take care of myself this time."

"But I can come visit, right?"

"You _have_ to do that," I say, reaching out for her hand. For once, I'm grateful for the money we're drowning in. It means Alice can fly out and see me whenever she wants to. It makes me feel slightly less terrified about what I'm doing. "I have to go talk to Alec," I finally say. "It's not fair of me to let this drag out."

"You want me to come?"

I smile and squeeze her fingers. "Thanks, but no. I made this mess and I have to clean it up. I'll be back soon."

*0*0*

When I exit the elevators into Alec's reception area, Irina's desk is empty. I wait for just a minute, in case she's on her way back to it, but when no one appears, I skirt around it and head down the hall to Alec's office.

I'm a little nervous about running into Phil here, since he works in the building. But his offices are on a different floor and I purposely came in the middle of the morning to reduce the risk of running into him heading out to a lunch meeting or something.

The door to Alec's office is partially ajar. He's at his desk, bent over his notepad writing something. Irina is leaning on the corner of his desk, a thick folder under her arm. Nothing about the scene is suspicious. Alec is working; Irina has brought him a file. But there's something about the slight smile on his face as he responds to her and her too-casual manner in his office that makes me feel like I've just caught them at something. Maybe not anything that's happened yet, but I've caught the potential for something.

Maybe I'm just justifying, but it makes me feel a little less bad about how I've behaved.

I don't knock; I just push the door open and walk in. Alec's head snaps up and his expression is some mix of relief and frustration. Irina stands bolt-upright and takes a tiny step back away from Alec's desk. If I wasn't quite certain about her intentions thirty seconds ago, her reaction to my unexpected appearance makes me sure.

"There was no one at reception," I say, pausing to let her squirm, "so I came on back."

"I was just… leaving this," Irina mutters, dropping her file on Alec's desk and walking around me to leave without looking away from the carpet. I watch her go and then I close the door behind her.

"Well, at least you're okay, although a phone call might have been nice," Alec says without preamble. "Everyone's been frantic, Isabella. Where the fuck have you been?"

"I'm sorry I didn't call. I needed some time."

Alec throws his pen down and pushes back from his desk, studying me. Then he stands and plants his hands on his hips. "Time," he repeats, his voice measured, laced with thinly-veiled irritation.

I nod and cross my arms in front of me.

"Have you called your parents? They're worried sick."

I can't hold back my disbelieving snort. "I doubt that and no, I'm not going to be calling them."

Alec reaches up and rubs his hand across his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut for just a second. "What's this all about, Isabella? What's going on with you?"

For just a second, I look at him… _really_ look. It feels like the first time I've done it, openly, honestly. He's so handsome. In some ways, I know his face very well. I've seen him smiling, sleeping, shouting. I've seen him bored to death, and in the throes of passion.

So how is it that I know him so little? He feels a million miles away from me, on the other side of that crevasse that opened up in front of me yesterday. I'm ashamed of myself that when push comes to shove, it's so easy for me to let him land on that side. So easy to just let him go.

It should never be this easy to let go of someone.

I swallow hard and reach into my pocket, my fingers closing around the ring I tucked there. Crossing to his desk and stopping across from him, I reach out and lay it on top of the spreadsheet printouts he's left there.

Alec stares at it as I pull my hand back.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do this," I say, taking a step back.

He fists his hands in frustration, still staring at the ring. His teeth are clenched when he speaks again. "You _can't_? Look, I know we had a little fight or whatever after the benefit, but that's no reason to go and do something so melodramatic."

My own teeth clench as I struggle to remain calm. Just like my mother, ready to brush any unhappiness or show of emotion under the rug and ignore it.

"I'm not being melodramatic. I'm just not in love with you, Alec and I'm pretty sure you're not in love with me either. It wasn't right of me to say yes in the first place, and it's really impossible for me to marry you now."

"So that's it? You're done? Just like that?"

"Um, yes. I guess so. I'm leaving. And I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" he echoes in disbelief. I'm tired of listening to his scorn. He doesn't sound even a little upset, only angry. We were both so wrong to ever try this. Neither one of us was here for the right reason. I feel a chill across the back of my neck, momentarily imagining what life would have been like if I'd gone through with it and married him. So very wrong.

"Yes, I'm sorry. For everything. Good luck."

I turn and I'm almost to the door when he speaks again.

"Wait. You're just walking out? Where are you going?"

I turn back to look at him one last time because I fully intend for this to be the last time I ever see him. "I'm going home."

*0*0*

Alice and I sit at the airport Starbucks, our hands wrapped around our paper cups as we lean towards each other across the table. 

"I'll come visit soon. I promise."

I nod. "I just need to get settled in and see what I'm facing and then we can plan it."

"We can redecorate your house! It'll be fun."

"Slow down! The house has been a rental for ten years. It probably needs a lot more than new window treatments and throw pillows."

She sighs and her forehead creases. Worried Alice is back. "Are you sure about this, Iss?"

She's asked me this a thousand times over the past three days. I swallow hard and nod. "I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm sure I'm doing the right thing. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, I guess it does. I'll just tell you again that I'm going to miss you."

I reach out for her hand, too warm from her coffee cup. "I'll miss you, too. You've got my new number, right?" I ask, tapping my new pre-paid phone I bought from some fly-by-night store downtown yesterday. She nods. She's the only person who has the number.

"Call me when you get there. And call a million more times after that. I want to hear about everything."

I nod and start gathering up my stuff. There's hardly anything. The small suitcase packed with the few new clothes I bought at the Gap has already been checked. There's only my shoulder bag, filled with some stuff I bought at the drugstore to get me by until I get where I'm going.

Alice and I hug and hang onto each other forever at the entrance to security. I feel like a little kid on the first day of kindergarten, about to head out into the unknown without my security blanket.

I kiss her cheek one more time and promise to call her when I land, and then I go through the security gate and into the unknown. Or maybe I'm going back to the only thing I truly know. I guess I'll find out.

*0*0*

The airport in Port Angeles is tiny. They only handle a handful of flights a day back and forth to Seattle and there's only one luggage carousel, so it doesn't take me long to clear the gate and retrieve my bag. There's only one rental car place, so that makes the choice easy. There's a man finishing up his transaction, so I get in line behind him.

I open my wallet and see the row of blank slots where there used to be credit cards. They're all gone now, chopped up in pieces in the wastebasket back at the W Hotel. They've been replaced by just one, the temporary one issued by my new bank a few days ago, the one paid for with just my money. I swallow hard around my fear as I get it out.

While I wait, I peer out the glass windows at the front of the terminal, trying to get a glimpse of the place I used to call home. Well, I'm not quite home yet. If I remember right, I still have an hour or so to drive until I'm really back home in Forks.

It's overcast. Not gloomy, just not sunny. I remember that about this place. And it's green. I see dense dark green trees skirting the road out front. There are trees everywhere. I remember that, too.

"Bella?"

I jump and spin. There's a woman standing just to my right, smiling slightly, examining me with curiosity. I just blink, so surprised at hearing that name again the second I get back here.

"I'm sorry, but you look like…are you Bella Swan?"

As she talks, something about the shape of her face, her hazel eyes, her long dark hair, her lanky arms and legs, seems familiar, and I think I know her, too.

"Um, yes. I am."

"Oh my _God_!" she breathes. "Wow!" The "oh my God" does it. Angela Webber. She used to say that all the time back in middle school when we were trying out our newly acquired grown-up slang.

"Angela, right?"

"You remember!"

I smile and nod, feeling infinitely lighter, better. Already there's something real and familiar, even after all this time. Angela was one of my best friends in middle school. Quiet and a good student, like me, we gravitated to each other. I remember spending my entire last summer here shuttling back and forth between her house and mine, killing time together until school started again in the fall. But by the fall of that year, my father was dead and I was in New York, getting fitted for my new uniform for Spencer. Angela had gotten lost with everything else I'd left behind.

"You look fantastic, Bella. What are you doing here?"

I open my mouth and then stop, unsure how to respond. I can't very well tell her I'm fleeing my nightmarish mother who doesn't love me, a fiancé _I_ don't love and the man I'm pretty sure I _do_ love, but who has broken my heart twice. That's too much to dump on someone I just ran into for the first time in ten years. All the same, I need to start someplace.

"Um, I just needed a change of pace after graduation. So I decided to come back home for a while."

Angela's eyes widen slightly and she just examines me for a second. But otherwise, she shows no immediate reaction to that peculiar news. Instead, a brilliant, wide smile takes over her face. "That is such good news. It'll be so great having you back here again!" I remember this about Angela. She's a born diplomat. She always knew just the thing to say to smooth childhood disagreements so that everybody would keep playing. And she knew how to make anybody feel welcome and important.

"So you still live in Forks?" I ask. I'll feel so much better if there's just one person there I know.

She nods. "With my husband. You remember Ben Cheney?" I nod, even though I'm not sure if I do. "We got married last year. I was just dropping him off here for his flight. He's got meetings in San Francisco all week."

"Congratulations on the wedding."

"Thanks," she says, simple and sweet. "Hey, are you renting a car?"

"Yeah, I don't have one yet."

"I can drive you back to Forks. I'm headed there anyway."

"Oh, really? That would be so great." I did end up getting my driver's license in college, but I hardly ever drive. There wasn't a lot of need for it in Providence and none at all in New York. I'm a nervous, unsteady driver, and the prospect of an hour on unfamiliar roads is terrifying. 

"Sure! We can catch up on the way. Where's all your stuff?"

"This is it," I say, indicating my one small suitcase. Angela gives me a quick look. She can see how odd all this is. It's so obvious I'm in freefall and running away from something. But she says nothing. She just smiles and leads me out of the airport.

The drive goes by fast. Angela seems to sense that I don't want to talk about myself, so she carries the conversation, filling me in on the whereabouts of everyone I went to middle school with.

The names are familiar, and sometimes, young faces float up in my mind to go with them. Everybody's all grown up now, of course, but a lot of them have stayed here. It's that kind of place. People stay put. Angela talks about who's gotten married, who's engaged, who works for the family business and who's struck out on their own. She describes cookouts and girls' nights out and weaves a whole world for me, filled with all the kids I grew up with, now making their adult lives together, too. Through it all, she automatically includes me, as if now that I'm back, I'll be seamlessly inserted into their world right alongside her as if I was never gone. It makes me feel warm in a way few other things could at this point, even if she's just being polite.

I don't get much of a look at the town of Forks, since our house is off a state road before you reach the town proper. But the things we do pass—scattered houses, bait shops, gas stations and churches—all look unchanged and so familiar. A few minutes later, Angela turns onto the short street where my house is. I can see it already. Small and white, with a little wood front porch and dormer windows poking out of the second story roof. My eyes go automatically to my old bedroom window. The elm tree in the front yard is still there and the branches are still scraping the window. I remember the sound they made against the glass when I was falling asleep every night.

It's got the Spartan look of a rental property. There's no landscaping or personal touches. It looks in decent repair, though. My trust fund has apparently been paying one of my father's old co-workers a small monthly stipend to manage the property. Jim Jenks said it had only had three tenants, all long-term, but it's currently vacant. And now it's mine. The only thing in the world I own.

I fish the keys I'd retrieved from Jim Jenks yesterday out of my pocket as Angela pulls my suitcase from the trunk. 

"Come with me?" I ask her, not yet ready to be completely on my own.

"Sure."

We enter and I'm hit with wave after wave of nostalgia. The memories of my dad are so strong that I almost start crying. It was right here where I'm standing, that I saw him alive for the last time, watching him strap on his holster and shrug into his jacket as he got ready for his shift. The last shift he'd ever work.

And it was there, on the battered brown couch we used to have, that a woman from the police station sat me down and told me what had happened. I remember her patting my arm and telling me it would all be okay, that my mother would be here soon to take care of me.

Angela reaches out and rubs my arm. "Remembering?"

"Yeah. I haven't actually done much of that. Being here brings it all back."

"I'll bet," she says gently. After a minute, she continues, brighter. "Well, it looks like you need just about everything, huh?"

I have to laugh, because it's true. This place is bare to the walls. "I guess so."

"What are you going to do tonight?"

"I haven't even thought that far ahead yet."

Angela laughs. "Lucky for you, Ben's away and my weekend is wide open. Come crash at my place tonight. There's a great thrift store back in PA that we can hit tomorrow to get you some basics. But for right now, how's dinner sound?"

I want to laugh, cry, and hug Angela all at the same time. But I just say, "It sounds great."

*0*0*

Two hours later, Angela and I are sitting cross-legged on the floor on either side of her coffee table, a mostly-empty pizza box and a mostly-empty bottle of wine between us.

Her little house is simple, but cute and looks like it's lived in by two people who love it and each other. There are pictures of Angela and Ben lining the mantle. I feel bad that I still don't remember Ben, even after seeing his picture, although he looks nice.

Angela leans across the table to me and refills my glass. The wine has left me warm and relaxed.

"Okay, Bella," Angela says with great import. "I don't want to pry, but I can tell there's something going on with you. Last I heard, you got adopted by your mom's rich new husband and you were loaded and living in New York. Nobody in their right mind leaves all that to move back to _Forks_, of all places. So what's up?"

I look at her across the table for a minute. I know I grew up with her, and once, we were best friends, but we were just kids. As adults, she's practically a stranger. But something tells me I can trust her, that she'll understand. Or maybe I'm just desperate to have someone to reach out to. Whatever it is, I start talking.

"I ran away from home."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I'm an adult. I suppose I'm free to go where I want. But I left it… all of it."

"When you say 'all of it', what exactly are we talking about?"

"My parents, the money… my fiancé."

Angela takes a deep breath, but her expression doesn't change and she doesn't look away. "Is that what it is?"

"Is that what _what_ is?"

Angela raises a hand in front of her. "I know we haven't seen each other in a million years and I don't really know a thing about you anymore, but I can still tell that something major is going on with you. Your face... you just look… devastated. Was it your fiancé?"

I have to look down at my hands before I can speak again. "No, not him. But yes, there was… somebody." I don't know what to say about Edward. It's all so big, so thorny. Was he just a fling? That's what it would seem like from the outside. An ill-advised affair behind my fiancé's back. But he's not that. He's so much more that that. I can't explain about Edward and me in high school. I can't begin to describe what he meant to me, how he impacted me, then and for years afterwards. How, for a few hours, he made me imagine the possibility of a whole new future with him. How he made me feel so alive and wanted, even if it was all built on air.

My silence seems to speak for me though, and Angela doesn't say anything else for a minute.

"So you're running away from the fiancé… and the rest. What about your mom? Don't you want to tell her where you are?"

I laugh, short and humorless. "She won't care."

"Bella, she's your mom…"

"She gave birth to me. And believe me, she resents even that much involvement in my life. We're done."

"Oh, wow. I'm so sorry. When you left, we all thought you were going to have this great new life. All that money…"

I shake my head. "The money… you have no idea how much it fucks things up, Angela. It fucked up everything."

My throat closes up on the last words, thinking of Edward, and how he was, in the end, so tied to the money that he couldn't break free, or worse, didn't want to. I think of my mother, and her warped sense of values. The money, and the pursuit of it, was more important to her than anything. More important than her husband, more important than me.

I hear Angela move and then her hand wraps over mine on the table. She doesn't say a thing. She just rests her hand over mine. It's the most anyone could do for me, and right now, it's more than enough.

*0*0*

**A/N: **

So I know I said twelve chapters total, but by the time I finished, it was fourteen.

I need to say a huge thank you to the ladies at The Perv Pack Smut Shack this week. They did a roundtable review of The Art Teacher and said some really lovely and wonderful things about it. Thank you Chele, Emmy, Jeanne, Jen, Jess, Kitty, Teal, and Trin. That review made my week!

http : / /www . pervpackssmutshack . com/2011/01/perv-pack-pick-january-24th-2011 . html


	11. Outside the World

**WhatsMyNomdePlume betas and says nice things to me. **

*0*0*

Angela spends all of her time over the next two days helping me set up. She says it's because we're old friends and she wants to help me out, and I'm sure that's partly true. But I also suspect that Angela likes the challenge. She likes the blank slate of my house and my life, and she wants to help me fill in the picture. Plus, I think it's entertaining for her. I've only been in Forks for two days but I can tell that nothing much of interest ever happens here. To hear her talk about it, my arrival seems like the most exciting thing that's happened in months.

We first hit the thrift store in Port Angeles and I buy some ugly but serviceable furniture. Angela knows the store manager from debate club in high school and manages to talk him into delivering it on the same day. After a trip to the Port Angeles Walmart for bedding and kitchen stuff, the house is livable, in the most basic sense of the word.

I can't imagine what Alice would say about it. The place is shabby, there's no way around that. And while the part of me that's gotten accustomed to money and the best of everything balks a little, the rest of me is oddly relieved. I don't feel any pressure in this place and the weight of years of expectations lifts off me when I'm at the house alone. There's no one watching me, no one judging. I can breathe here.

The house gives me something concrete to focus on, which is just what I need. Things need to be cleaned and arranged and fixed. I wash all the floors on my hands and knees because I forgot to buy a mop. I scrub the stove and refrigerator until they're spotless. I wash windows and pull weeds from around the porch. I endlessly rearrange my little scraps of furniture and the odds and ends Angela brings me from her basement to make the most of it.

I'm there five days when I discover my favorite part of my new-old house. There's a tiny wooden porch off the back of the house, opening off the kitchen. The backyard is an uneven patch of scraggly grass and weeds, hemmed in by dense trees. As soon as I see it, I remember that the Olympic National Forest backs right up to the property line. The yard slopes gently down to the tree line, but then the ground falls away dramatically, dipping into a deep valley just behind the house. The result is a wide break in the trees that provides a spectacular view of the distant mountain range, framed by dense evergreens on either side. You can't really see the mountains from very many places in Forks, but you can see them from my backyard.

It's funny that I don't remember such a remarkable, incongruous feature, but my sole memory of the backyard is of my dad constantly complaining about the forest's perpetual encroachment. Nature won't be denied.

Every morning, I take my coffee and go sit on the back porch, looking at the woods and the mountains. It's late October, and the weather is getting cold. The mornings are damp and sharply chilled. The air is crisp and clean, and smells of pine. It's my favorite time of the day. I feel a tenuous peace there that reminds me of looking at my favorite paintings. The forest, the trees, the mountains…it all oddly reminds me of Turner. The color and atmosphere is all wrong of course, but the scale is just right. There's just tiny me in my tiny house at the edge of the forest, with the vast sweep of untamed nature sprawling out in front of me.

Everything that's happened looms less largely in those early morning moments. I'm so raw and undone, but during those quiet hours, I catch glimpses of a future when I won't be. I'll be okay. I'll get through this— all of this— and make my life. I'll figure it all out.

Until then, I stay busy and I think about what I've done and all that's happened. I turn over the people and events and I try to make them all make sense.

Alec was doomed from the start. With a little distance, I can see that. When I think of him now, all I feel is guilt. I do a lot of soul-searching, asking myself how I could have ever gotten in so deep with him to begin with. I don't come up with any easy answers. I've spent too many years trying to be whoever I needed to be to belong, to be loved. When it seemed like I could find those things with Alec, I grabbed on with both hands. I'm ashamed of myself. But already, I know that the person I am now, even after such a short time, would never say yes like I did then, so I figure that this is progress.

In hindsight, the break with my mother seems inevitable. We've been pushing and pulling at each other ever since I re-entered her life ten years ago. We were never going to make peace with one another. I hate that it happened so violently, and at perhaps the worst possible moment. But on the other hand, maybe it happened in that moment because that was the only time I would let it happen.

As for Edward… I can hold Alec, my mother and Phil at a distance, examine what they mean to me and explore how I feel about them. But I can't do that with Edward. Everything about him is too raw and too recent. I can't seem to gain enough space to work through that. So I skirt around him in my mind, doing my best not to dwell on him too long. It's the best I can do right now.

The first Saturday after I get to Forks, Angela shows up at my door at 10 in the morning, pulling me out and into her car, insisting she's solved all my problems. My salvation comes in the form of a rusted red pick-up truck of indeterminate age with a 'For Sale" sign in the window. When I question her, Angela insists that I can't survive in Washington without my own ride. She's right about that. Plus, I can afford it, and I can't say that about too many things these days.

So within days, I own not only my little white house, but a truck as well.

The truck frees me in a way I never expected. I'm still terrified of driving, but I manage. I learn the small circuit of streets that make up Forks and I learn some of the surrounding state roads. It's beautiful here. So different than New York or any other place I've been. It's cloudy almost all the time, cold and damp, but everyone tells me it isn't so bad in summer.

As I wander through Forks, I run into a lot of people I know. It's such a small town, so it's not surprising that people remember me and my dad. What happened to him was the biggest thing to happen here in generations. They're all so friendly. I forgot this part—or maybe I just wasn't aware of it as a kid. It's so different from how people are in New York. There, you can just float along in a bubble of anonymity. Everyone's so busy with their own shit that they have very little interest in you and yours. Here, everyone is bored and desperate for something new to happen. I'm fascinating to them and everyone wants to talk. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm not the most open person by nature anyway, and certainly not now, when there's almost nothing I can say about my life that isn't painful and awkward. I fumble my way through those conversations with people I used to know as best I can and escape quickly.

Alice's phone calls are the bright spots in my days. At first, she calls every day, sometimes twice. We make tentative plans for her to fly out in a few weeks and I circle it on my calendar. Her visit is the sun on my horizon right now.

After I'm in Forks for a week, her calls drop off to every other day, mostly because I never have anything new to say. It doesn't hit me right away that it's been four days since we talked. In fact, I don't realize it until my phone is ringing and I see her name on the screen. I push the back door open with my hip as I answer, settling in on my favorite perch on the back porch steps.

"Alice? Hi!"

I hear her exhale before she speaks, "Hi, sweetie. I'm sorry I haven't called. How are you?"

I know her voice so well, and I can hear that the brightness is gone. She sounds strained and tired.

"I'm okay. The same. But how are you? What's up?"

She sighs again and there's a long pause before she speaks. "A few days ago, Emmett called me."

"Emmett McCarty? From Spencer?"

"Yeah."

"Wow, I haven't heard from him since graduation. How is he?"

"He's good, but he didn't really call to chat." Alice pauses again before she launches into her explanation. "Last month, he was at some club in Milan and he ran into Rose."

"Rose?"

"Yeah. They hung out for a while and… well, he told me she was a mess when he found her."

I feel my stomach contract unpleasantly. All my fears about Rose over the years, my concern that she was in trouble, harden into a surety at Alice's words.

"He said she was totally fucked up on something, and she was with these strange guys… he said it was a really bad scene. He took her back to his hotel and I don't know how, but he managed to talk her into flying back home with him. So she's here now… in rehab."

"Oh, no. Poor Rose. Have you seen her?"

"Yeah, I went to see her as soon as he called me. She looks so bad, Iss. She's so skinny and she's got…"

Alice stops speaking abruptly and I hear her choke on her tears.

"Tell me, Alice."

"She has track marks all over her arms. God, she's such a mess." Alice's voice is watery and high. I close my eyes and press my fist against my forehead. When I open them again, I focus on the snow on the mountains in the distance.

"What can I do? I want to help."

"Nothing. There's nothing you can do out there. You've got enough on your hands. But…God, I feel like shit because I know you really need me, but I think I have to…."

"You need to stay there with her."

"Yeah. She doesn't really have any friends here anymore. Emmett's hanging around, but she doesn't want to see too much of him right now. I think she's really embarrassed. She'll talk to me, though, and she seems better when I go see her. She needs me, Iss."

I nod, trying to squash down the ache at not seeing Alice soon. I'd been hanging on to her visit like a lifeline. But maybe this is for the best. Maybe I need to let go of the lifeline and just sink or swim on my own. She's right; I'm doing okay out here right now, but Rose, poor Rose… she needs Alice so much more than I do.

"Of course she does. That's where you should be. You're such a good person, Alice. You know that, right?" It's true. She's so kind, giving all of herself to take care of other people. One day, I hope she finds someone who will take care of her. She deserves it.

Alice scoffs softly. "I just want her to be okay. I want all of us to be okay."

"I want that, too."

We talk for a few more minutes and she gives me Rose's number so I can call her once the dust settles a little bit. When she hangs up, it's just me, still all alone at the edge of the woods.

*0*0*

It's been three weeks since I got to Forks. Three and a half weeks since the nightmarish day that led to my flight. That is what I'm thinking about as I hang the new curtains I just found at the Salvation Army. They're not quite the right size for the windows, but they'll do. I like the color; cheery bright yellow.

Some days if feels like I've been here for a year already, and other days, I think I can still feel my hands shaking the way they did on the sidewalk in front of my old building that day when everything fell apart.

I'm up on a chair, fighting with the curtain rod, thinking about finding a job, thinking about going back to school, thinking about _not _thinking about Edward, when the phone rings. Not my cell phone on the coffee table—the landline. It's an old wall-mounted model in the kitchen and it hasn't rung once since I've been here. I don't even know the number for it.

I climb down off my chair and hurry for it, picking it up like it might bite me.

"Hello?"

"Isabella?"

I open my mouth to respond, but it's a few seconds before anything comes out. It's the last voice I ever expected to hear again.

"Phil?"

I hear him clear his throat before he speaks again, "Ah, yes. It's me."

I ask the first question that comes to mind. "How did you find me?"

"I guessed. And Jim Jenks had this number in his files. He said you came by for the keys."

My cheeks flush slightly at the awkwardness of this. I'm annoyed that Jim just ratted me out, but not very surprised. Jim owes Phil a lot. I can't imagine why he's tracked me down, or what he could possibly want. My first impulse is to stay silent and wait to be told. But then I remember that there's no longer anything between us and he's calling me in _my_ house. I can ask what I want and I don't have to defer to anyone about it.

"What do you want?" I still feel guilty the second the words leave my mouth. I sound cold and abrupt, and Phil, while not loving, has never been mean to me. I should at least be polite.

"I…" he starts and then pauses. I hear rustling in the background, like he's shifting in his chair. "I'm worried about you. I wanted to see how you are."

"Oh." That was not the answer I was expecting, and I don't know how to respond. Then it occurs to me that maybe this isn't Phil tracking me down; maybe it's my mother. Maybe she knew, rightly, that I wouldn't talk to her, so she's making him do it. "Listen, you can tell my mother…"

"Your mother and I have separated," he says quietly. "Just after you left. She's in the Hamptons for now."

His words leave me dumbfounded for a moment. _Separated._ Then my manners kick back in. "I'm sorry," I say instinctively.

"It was… time. Listen, Isabella, I ran into Ken Hale last week. You went to school with his daughter, Rosalie, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. Did he tell you about her?"

"About the rehab? Yes. I wasn't sure if you'd heard."

"Alice told me."

"So you're in touch with Alice." He says it like a fact, not a question. "She wouldn't answer my calls."

I scowl a little at that, puzzled that Phil would have been calling Alice. I'd been imagining New York frozen just as I left it, or carrying on as it always was, just without me. Now I have the sense of things happening as a result of my departure. Phil's left Renee… Phil's been trying to find me… I wonder what else I've missed.

"I asked her not to," I finally say. The silence after that lasts long enough that I start to feel uncomfortable. I'm opening my mouth to speak again when Phil finally does. His voice is quiet, and softer than I've ever heard it.

"I'm sorry, Isabella."

My breath lets go in a surprised little huff. "What for?"

"I haven't been…" Phil sighs, too. "Talking to Ken, seeing how upset he is about Rosalie… it made me realize that it could have been you. Easily. I've been so careless, Isabella. I gave you my name, but I was never a real parent to you. I didn't even know what it meant to be one. I've failed you, and so has your mother."

I can't even speak after he says that. He sounds sad and defeated. Nothing at all like the bold captain of industry I've known for ten years. This man sounds fragile and human. Lost. When I don't respond, he keeps going.

"How unhappy must you have been that doing this… running away to the other side of the country seemed like your only option?"

He sounds so angry at himself that I feel the need to make it better. "It wasn't you, not really. You were always good to me. It was my mother. And a lot of other things. I needed… I _still_ need… to find my own way. This is really for the best."

"I bought you a nice life. That's not the same as being good to you. I'm sorry, more sorry than I can say, that I missed the opportunity to be your father when you needed one."

My eyes burn and my throat hurts. Phil's voice hitches at the end and I can't believe it, but it sounds like he's getting emotional, too. This is _Phil_, who's floated through my life for years as a polite, intimidating stranger. Phil reaching out. Phil apologizing.

"It's okay," I manage around my tears. It's not, really. And okay is a completely insufficient word, but the platitude is the best I can manage right now. I hear Phil draw a deep breath, as if he's steeling himself, and when he speaks again, his voice is sharper, more himself.

"Are you alright out there? Do you have what you need?"

"I'm fine. I'm figuring things out."

"I understand that you're an adult now and the choices you're going to make… well, they're yours to make. But you should know, I'll always consider you my daughter, Isabella, no matter what you choose. And your trust fund…"

"I don't want it," I finally interrupt him. "It's not really mine. That's why I left it."

"I know. But it will stay where it is and it will stay in your name… should you ever need it."

"You don't have to…"

"Yes," he says, interrupting me this time, "Yes, I do."

I push down the impulse to say thank you, because that implies I'm accepting it and I'm not, so I just say nothing.

"So, do you think you'll be staying there in… uh, Forks for a while, then?" He pauses and drags out the word "Forks", like he's not sure if he's got it right.

"For now. I'm not sure where I'll end up, really."

"There are all of your things here in your room."

"They're not mine," I say in a rush.

I imagine I can hear a smile in his voice when he responds, "Of course they are. Can I… I'd like to send your things to you, if you want them."

I think about that for a minute. There's not much in my room back on East End Avenue that feels like mine anymore. Not the clothes or jewelry, not the knickknacks or the things on my desk. But when I think about my books, my art history library, the books I lovingly assembled while I was in college, I hesitate.

"I wouldn't mind having my art books," I finally say.

"Fine. I'll have Maria box them up tomorrow. What about your pictures? The Turner?"

I shake my head hard, "No, that's Alec's. You should return it to him."

At the mention of Alec's name, he falls silent.

"I'm sorry about Alec," I say after a minute.

"Why on earth are you sorry about that?"

"I know you wanted…"

"I want you to be happy. If Alec can't make you happy, then you did the right thing."

"How is he?"

Phil snorts softly, a slightly scornful sound and I flash back to that moment in Alec's office, with Irina leaning on the corner of his desk as he smiled at his papers. I bet Alec is fine.

"Alec is very… industrious. He'll do alright for himself."

That seems loaded, but Phil's not offering details and I don't really want to know, so I drop it.

"Isabella, I'd like… if you wouldn't mind… can I stay in touch with you? I'm not asking you to call me your father again. I know I've blown that chance. But I'd like to be your friend. Can I do that?"

Once again, Phil, the mighty Philip Dwyer, is moving me to tears. I swallow hard and answer him. "I'd like that."

*0*0*

Phil is true to his word: two days later, a dozen boxes of books are delivered to my doorstep. It makes me happier than I'd guessed it would, having my art books again. I miss spending hours lost in galleries and museums. I have a feeling that it'll be a while before I can do that again, but the books are a good substitute. I get lost in them, and I get back in touch with everything I love about art. Some of the paintings are so familiar to me that it's like seeing old friends. They're a piece of me from my old life that I never want to lose; the one part that I always knew was true.

That's when I know I'm going to go back to school. I don't know how soon, or how I'll pay for it, but I'm perfectly clear on this one thing. I want to spend my life in art.

I have a lot to think about: Rose, making her way back to the land of the living; my mother, cut off from the money that means more than anything to her; Phil, reaching out to finally build some kind of real relationship with me. It's plenty to keep my thoughts very busy. All day long, I turn it all over in my head. But it's different at night. Every night, after I climb into bed and turn off the light, I listen to the elm branches scrape against the window and I don't think about any of that.

At night, my mind circles endlessly around Edward.

I don't want to miss him. I don't want to_ want_ him. But I still do. I know I can't have him, but knowing is not the same as feeling, and I _long_ for him. It has nothing to do with logic or reason. The events and the facts have no bearing on it. It's a wild, irrational thing, how much I still want him. But it's always been that way with him, so I'm not all that surprised that I can't shake him loose, even after what happened and who he's turned out to be.

I don't even really try to get rid of him. I don't want to hate him. I don't want his memory to turn into something bitter. After all, I'm resolved at this point. I may have left him, but he's never leaving me. He managed to impact me so strongly after just our brief encounter when I was a girl that I'm positive that what happened between us that day in his loft will stay with me all my life. I won't ever be able to erase him and what he's meant to me. He's always going to be there; I'm just going to have to learn to work around him. And if he's always going to be lurking in my psyche, I don't want it to be an ugly, hateful thing.

So I do my best to make peace with him. It will take a long time, I know that. I'm in no rush. He comes every night and stays in my mind as I fall asleep and I don't try and chase him away. I just let him linger and try to be okay with his presence there.

He hovers in my mind when I'm awake, too but I try to exercise more mental discipline during the day. I'm okay with him lingering in my imagination, but I don't want to become obsessed. I don't want to completely succumb to his destructive memory the way I did when I was eighteen. My thoughts flicker over him a hundred times a day, but I refocus myself quickly, always looking for distractions.

He's on the periphery of my mind so much that one evening, almost four weeks after I arrived in Forks, as I step out on my porch to retrieve my book from where I left it on the railing, for a moment, I forget to be surprised to find him standing in my front yard.

He's standing on the cobblestone path leading from the street to the front steps, maybe fifteen feet away, with a battered duffle bag slung over his shoulder. The fading twilight casts him in dramatic light and shadow. He's a mess. His flannel shirt is wrinkled and his faded jeans are dirty. His hair is a wreck and his face looks weathered and exhausted. There are deep purple smudges under his eyes.

As I stop just outside the door and we make eye contact, he startles slightly. I feel like he's been standing there awhile and I've caught him in the middle of thinking about something.

Once we're looking at each other, the shock takes hold.

_Edward._

Here in Forks.

I don't know how long we stand there, just staring. Finally, he lets his duffle bag slide off his shoulder and it hits the ground by his feet. "Hi."

I blink. Hi? _Hi?_

When I finally open my mouth to reply, I have no idea what's going to come out.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

*0*0*

**A/N: I exercised some creative license with my depictions of Forks. **


	12. The Past and Pending

**WhatsMyNomdePlume betas and patiently fixes the same punctuation errors over and over. I swear I'll figure it out one day!**

*0*0*

"What the hell are you doing here?"

My words hang in the air between us for a minute. Then Edward sighs and raises one shoulder in a weary shrug.

"You're here."

Whatever expression my face has taken on makes him continue talking to fill the silence.

"This is me chasing after you," he says, awkwardly, waving his hand weakly in between us. His voice is so tired and strained.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus. My heart is beating double-time. If I've spent any time wondering what would happen if I ever saw him again, whatever I imagined was nothing like this. I can't get my head around the fact that _Edward_ is standing in my front yard, three thousand miles away from where I left him last. I have so many questions, but I can't figure out which one of the really big ones should come first, so I start with a small one.

"How did you find me?"

"Google," Edward says promptly. My eyebrows shoot up in disbelief so he goes on. "It's a long story, but I figured out that you'd left town. And I remember you said you used to live in Washington. I also remembered what you told me about your dad. It was easy after that. There weren't too many cops named Swan killed in the line of duty in Washington state. Just one, really. And he lived here."

At the mention of my dad, I look down at my feet and my eyes stay there for the rest of his explanation.

"So how did you know that I would be here?"

"I didn't know for _sure_."

That catches me entirely off-guard. "You just came three thousand miles because you thought I _might_ be here?"

He just keeps looking at me, never glancing away. His eyes are earnest and sad. "It was the best I had to go on. I needed to find you."

What he's just done, this grand gesture, is just too big for me to deal with. I don't know how to respond to it. Having this conversation now, tonight, ever was the last thing I expected and I'm entirely caught out.

"It was almost a month ago," I point out, buying myself a second to think. "Why now?"

He chuckles, a soft, huffing tired sound. "Well, catching the next plane to Seattle might sound like a great dramatic gesture, but in reality, it's expensive as hell. And I'm broke. I had to find a ride out here, and that took time. Then the guy I was riding to Seattle with had to stop in all these fucking places and then it took me forever to hitch here from Seattle…" He trails off and drags both hands through his hair in frustration. When he speaks again, it's urgent, his tiredness forgotten. "Look, I came here because it's really fucking important. _You're_ really important. I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to, but I just spent a week folded up in the back of a Honda Civic with some stoned out college kid to get here, so please, Bella…"

I open my mouth to interrupt him, but he holds up a hand to stop me.

"Don't. Don't tell me to go yet. Don't tell me to stay, either. Just… I want to talk to you. It doesn't have to be tonight. Just think about it, okay? Think about listening to me? Just don't say no tonight. Please."

I can't say anything to that. He's not asking for forgiveness or another chance. Not yet, anyway. He's just asking me to think about hearing him out. I already know I'll let him, but I can't say so. If I say yes to listening now, then he'll talk now and I'm way too shell-shocked by his appearance to have that conversation. I need a little time and space to get myself back together, to reinforce my defenses, before I'm ready for a heart-to-heart with Edward.

All I do is nod my head a little. _Yes, I'll think about listening to you._ But that's enough to put a brilliant wide smile on his face for a moment. My heart hurts just looking at him and I _know_ I can't have this conversation now.

"Good. Okay. Right." He can't stop smiling and I feel like I'm about to smile in return because I can't help it. It's just what he does to me. But I get back under control and school my face into passivity. After all, nothing is any different. _He's_ not any different. He's a charming, handsome danger to me.

"So, I'll come by and see you tomorrow, okay? And we can talk, maybe?" He reaches down and hefts his duffle bag back onto his shoulder and starts backing up the walkway towards the street.

Except it's now fully dark outside. We're on a lonely, unlit side street off a sparsely-traveled state road on the outskirts of a very small town. Before I even stop to think about it, I'm calling after him.

"Wait." He freezes. "Where are you going? I mean… Where are you staying?"

Edward shrugs and the corner of his mouth curls up, that half-smile that's so present in all my memories of him. "I don't know. I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I'll get a hotel or something, I guess."

"There's only one motel in Forks. It's on the other side of town. It'll take you all night to walk there."

"Oh." He looks deflated and so tired. I wonder how long it's been since he slept decently. The circles under his eyes are dark and heavy. "I'll call a cab or something."

That actually makes me laugh out loud. "This is _Forks_. There are no cabs here."

"No cabs?" I shake my head, still half-smiling. Such a New Yorker.

I'm almost regretting my words before I even speak them, but I can't help myself. Just a few weeks ago, I was just as stranded here as he is now, and Angela was good to me when I needed it.

"You…" I close my eyes and take a deep breath through my nose. I can do this. It's no big deal. "You can crash here. Tonight. On the couch."

When I look up at him again, he's looking at me, his face a frozen mask of uncertainty. He doesn't move a muscle or say anything. It makes me anxious, so I start talking again to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"You shouldn't spend your money like that."

"Are you sure? I mean… is it okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine. It's just one night. The sofa."

The moment couldn't get any more awkward if it tried and I'm regretting saying anything now. I should have just let him hike all the way to the motel, or driven him there and dumped him out on the side of the road. He deserves it.

"Okay," he says softly, after a few moments of silence. Still neither of us moves. Finally, I take a step backwards towards the door, and it's the invitation he needs to move forward, up the front walk. He slowly climbs the shallow wood steps until he's on the porch with me. I turn and open the front door, holding it open behind me to let him in.

He stops just inside the door and waits, watching me.

"Um, you can put your bag there." I point to the floor just inside the arched entrance to the living room. "Did you… are you… have you eaten dinner?"

Edward shakes his head. "I've been in the cab of a logging truck all afternoon."

It makes me imagine his long journey to get here and for a minute, it sways me. It sounds like he's gone through so much to get here. It must mean something. He wouldn't have done it without a good reason. But I make myself remember it all, everything that happened that led me to be here a month later and I get control of my emotions again.

"I, um… I don't have a lot. And I don't really cook. But I could make sandwiches or something."

"Sure. Whatever's easiest for you," he says with a tentative smile. He's got his hands stuffed into the back pockets of his jeans and his shoulders are drawn up nearly to his ears. I don't say anything else; I just turn on my heel and head to the kitchen.

Digging edible food out of the fridge keeps me occupied enough that I don't freak out about the situation. I just focus on making dinner and try to ignore the fact that Edward is in my living room. It feels like the room is practically burning with his presence, but I make myself not look, not check to see if he's still there.

A few minutes later, I'm cursing silently under my breath as I try to spread the butter on the bread for grilled cheese sandwiches. It's not spreading— it's staying in a rock-hard lump that tears the slices of bread to shreds. I blow a strand of hair out of my face and see Edward hovering in the doorway. He's trying—and failing—to keep the smirk off his face.

"Can I help?" he says.

I huff in frustration. "I can't cook."

His smirk deepens. "So you said. You have to soften the butter first. Do you have a microwave?"

I hold the knife out to him and point. Then I stand back and watch Edward move around my kitchen, making grilled cheese sandwiches. It's one of the more surreal moments of my life.

Edward can cook. Well, the sandwiches are good, anyway. We sit at the kitchen table to eat and he asks me a few carefully neutral questions about Forks and my house. Nothing too personal. I answer in short sentences, avoiding any overtly sensitive information. He chases me out of the kitchen when we finish, insisting that the dishes are the least he can do to repay me for the use of the couch. I'm pathetically grateful to escape the tenseness of the kitchen and his presence.

While he washes up, I round up what I can in the way of bedding and clean towels. I don't have a lot, but there's enough to make up the couch. He wanders back into the living room a minute later.

"The, um… the bathroom is upstairs on the right. Do you need…"

Edward's whole body nearly collapses in relief. "I'd kill for a hot shower. You have no idea."

I swallow thickly and thrust a couple of towels at him. He smiles and hefts his duffle bag, carrying it up the stairs. When he emerges half an hour later, he's flushed and revived, his hair a damp riot of tangles. He looks like he's lost years with one shower. He's changed into sweatpants and a clean white t-shirt. I look at anything but him, trying not to notice his broad shoulders under the worn cotton, the flush of color across his cheekbones, his bare feet.

"I made up the couch," I say, backing away from it. "Sorry this is all there is. I have a spare bedroom, but there's no furniture in there."

Edward holds up a hand in protest. "No, Bella, this is… You're really generous. Truly."

I nod and smile tightly. "Okay then. I'm going to bed. Let me know if you need anything."

"Okay. Sleep well."

I skirt around him, maintaining the minimum two feet that we've kept between us all night long. I don't exhale until I'm all the way up the stairs and my bedroom door is closed behind me.

Sleep seems impossible. I lay on my back, eyes wide open, staring at the patterns the shadows of the elm branches make across the ceiling. I listen to the erratic scrape of them against the window and wait for the sound to lull me to sleep. Not surprisingly, it doesn't work tonight. How can I possibly sleep when Edward is on my couch downstairs?

My muddled mind restlessly turns over question after question—why he's here, what he can possibly have to say, and what I might say in response. But there are too many unknowns. Does he think he can explain her away? I don't think he can. And if that's what he's here for, I'm going to have to send him packing. My heart fails at the thought, but there's no help for it. Then I remind myself that I said I'd listen. He hasn't spoken yet; I haven't listened yet. Once that happens, then I'll know what to do. At least I hope I'll know.

I must finally drift off at some point, because then I'm waking up to the cool, weak morning light cutting across my bed. No, I wake up because I hear a small noise downstairs. Last night comes back to me in a rush and I sit bolt upright in bed. He's still here. Edward's in my house.

I slip out of my room and into the bathroom as silently as possible, and I stay in there for a long time. I wash my face, brush out my hair, brush my teeth, putting myself together to face him. Over my pajama pants, I pull on the oversized cream wool fisherman's sweater I found at my favorite thrift store in Port Angeles, along with heavy warm socks to ward off the chill in the house. Bundled up like this makes me feel slightly safer, which I know is ridiculous.

Half an hour later, I come downstairs. I find Edward sitting at my kitchen table, bent over one of my art books, a catalogue of a Reginald Marsh exhibit. The room smells like coffee. When I appear in the doorway, his head snaps up and we look at each other for a moment.

There's always been this thing between us. When he looks at me, it's always made me feel excited, exposed, alight. All of that is still there, except now it's joined by a host of other feelings like pain, regret and anger. It's all too much and I have to look away, out the window.

He clears his throat and says, "I made coffee. I hope you don't mind."

"No, that's really great. Thank you."

He pushes back from the table and crosses to the counter to pour me a cup. When he reaches out to hand it to me, his fingers brush mine for just a second. It's the first time I've touched him since the last time I touched him, and I'm unprepared for the way my entire body responds to the contact. Whatever remains to be said, whatever will happen next, this part of us is still here, undiminished. I have to be aware of that, and ready to defend against it.

He drops his hand and backs away quickly, which makes me think he felt it, too. I cover my discomfort by taking a sip of my coffee.

I hear him inhale deeply. "Bella…." he starts.

I can feel this conversation, this confrontation, circling us, about to happen whether I'm ready for it or not. The kitchen feels too small and there's nowhere to look. I need more space, someplace where I don't feel so cornered by his overwhelming presence.

"Usually in the mornings I sit outside," I interrupt him. I move past him to the back door. He pauses for just a moment, then picks up his own coffee and follows me in silence. It's cold outside, but not unbearable. It's the damp, crisp air I've gotten used to. It smells good, like pine and earth. I feel better as soon as I step out onto the tiny back porch.

I move to the top step and sit on the left side, leaning against the wooden post that supports the porch roof. Edward sits on the right side.

"Holy… that's some view," he says.

I smile in spite of the tension, oddly pleased. I knew he'd like it out here. "It's my favorite place to sit."

"I can see why. This is beautiful."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping our coffee and looking at the distant mountains. There's a bird flying above the treeline in the valley below, a hawk, or maybe an eagle. It's too far away to tell. The peace I usually feel back here slowly seeps into my body. I hang onto it tight. Whatever happens here, whatever is said and done, there's still this. There's still me and this place and my surety that I'll be alright. I remind myself of that over and over in my head.

"So," Edward says after a minute. Everything in me tenses. "Have you thought about what I asked last night? Can we just talk?"

I sigh and focus on my hands gripping my steaming coffee cup. "You came all the way out here just to talk to me. The least I can do is listen. I won't promise any more than that."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Okay. So let's talk."

He's quiet again, slowly turning his cup in his hands, and I can almost hear the wheels in his head turning, too. "I'm trying to think of the best way to start," he says.

I sigh. "Edward, I don't know a thing about you, so you might as well start at the beginning and tell me everything."

He looks up at me. "That's not true. You _do_ know me. The important parts of me, anyway."

I look away from him, back out at the woods. "It doesn't feel that way. I don't understand you, or what you've…" My throat closes up a little, so I stop talking and swallow hard. It doesn't matter anyway. He knows where I was going with that. _I don't understand what you've done._

"Alright, the beginning. Right." After another pause and a deep breath, he starts talking slowly. "In art school, everybody told me I had all this promise. I was the shit; the best in my class. They said I was the best to come through the school in years. Fuck, I had an agent and my first show lined up before I even graduated. It seemed like I had it made. But then I was out of school a few months and I was starving. Everybody was saying I was destined for greatness, but I was two months behind in the rent on my crappy studio in Brooklyn, living on ramen noodles. I was getting paintings into shows and getting great reviews, but that doesn't make a whole lot of difference to the bottom line. Good reviews are nice, but you can't eat them. I looked for a day job, but my BFA from a fancy art school didn't mean shit in the corporate world.

"Things were _bad_. I was flat-broke. And the whole time, my dad was telling me that if I just moved back home, he could get me set up in his office."

I glance over at him and he looks up at me, making eye contact. His face is intense. "Selling _insurance_," he says with emphasis.

He sighs and looks away, back at the woods in front of us. "Yeah, so I was against the wall and I thought that in a few weeks, I was going to have to throw in the towel and move back to Evanston. Sell insurance with my dad. I don't know." He pauses, and then says, "That's when I met Mimi Weigert."

Her name hits with a thud. I still don't say anything. This is his story to tell and I'm not getting in the way.

"My agent told me that I had to play nice. He said it was all part of how the art world worked. People like Mimi buy art. They tell their friends to buy art. And what they decide to buy has as much to do with the artist as it does with the art. It felt gross, but he said I had to, and so I did. I knew what she was up to. She was after more than a painting. But I figured maybe I could walk the line and not fall over it, you know? I thought maybe just flirting a little and flattering her might be enough. And at first, that's all it was."

He blows out a breath and runs his hand through his hair before he continues. "I must have mentioned how tight my situation was, because she offered to get me set up with the seminar at Spencer. It seemed like a decent stop-gap until I figured something else out. It was a hell of a lot better than going back to Evanston, anyway. So I said yes and she set it up."

Edward shifts next to me and rests his elbows on his knees. I sit my cold coffee down and wrap my arms around my knees. I let my mind wander back in time as he tells his story. Back to his gallery show, that first time I ever spoke to him one-on-one. 

"The funny thing was," he says, his voice lighter, more energized. "I actually liked teaching you guys. It was fun. And I started to think that maybe, if I had to do something besides painting to pay the rent, teaching might not be so bad. At least I'm still talking about art, right? And there was something kind of cool about showing you guys all that stuff for the first time. You never know where it might lead you. I mean, look at _you_ now."

He trails off and looks in my direction, but it's awkward and he doesn't actually make eye contact. I still say nothing.

Edward clears his throat and after a second, he keeps going. "Then…" He shakes his head and chuckles ruefully. "There I was thinking I might make it as a teacher and then I go and fucking _fall_ for one of my students. I mean, who the fuck does that?" The self-loathing in his voice takes me by surprise and I look at him. He's not looking at me; he's looking out at the woods and the view, but his face is twisted in disgust. "So it's pretty obvious to me that I have _no_ business teaching…"

"Edward," I finally say, needing to interject here. "You're not like that. It wasn't…"

He holds up a hand to stop me. "I know. I mean, I know it _now_. You were… it was different, what happened with you. But at the time, you have to understand. The second I laid eyes on you, I knew I was in trouble. And the longer it went on, reading your papers, talking to you… I was a wreck. And thinking about you the way I did, feeling the way I was feeling… I couldn't have been much more disgusted with myself. And the whole time, my agent is telling me I have to learn how to keep the buyers happy, and fucking Mimi Weigert is there, telling me I was _so_ talented and I was _so_ special and her husband was in Europe for three weeks and she was so bored and wouldn't I just have dinner with her? It's awful. I know it is. I knew it then. But I was fucking obsessed with an eighteen-year-old high school student! I figured even Mimi was a healthier option."

He closes his eyes and tips his head forward, fisting his hands into his hair. I had no idea that he'd tormented himself so much over me. At the time I'd brushed aside his concerns about my age, but now I can see how he would have felt about it, how it must have torn him apart. He was disgusted with himself because of me.

"It was just a couple of times," he says, his voice low and gritty. "She wasn't looking for anything more than that. She just wanted to scratch an itch then she was pretty much done with me. She introduced me to her friend, Diana. She said it was because she knew I had to move out of my place in Brooklyn and Diana's basement apartment was free and she thought maybe Diana could help me out." Edward lets out a bitter scoff. "Yeah, the apartment was empty, and yeah, she gave it to me for next to nothing. But there's always a fucking price, right?"

He pauses and sucks in a deep, shaky breath. He's so distraught that I feel like I should say something, just to give him a break from telling his hateful story.

"So you were with her, too? That woman at your apartment? Diana?" I remember that day in front of his apartment, that woman staring down at me, and the way it made me feel. It makes me sick to think about it, but there's no point to any of this if I don't face it all, no matter how awful.

"Actually, no. I mean, it was going there eventually. I wasn't stupid. But at the time, no, nothing had happened. And I left before anything did."

"How many?" I can't help but ask, even though I don't really want to know the answer.

"How many what?"

"How many women were there?"

He blinks at me a few times until he understands what I'm asking. "Oh, like _that_? Just Mimi. I wasn't naïve. I knew where the path I was on would lead. There would have probably been more. I probably could have financed my entire career that way. God knows, I'd have hardly been the first or the last. I know it's awful, Bella. It sucked and I felt dirty as fuck, but all things considered… you know, that I was obsessed with my _student_… I figured it was no more than I deserved. That's where my life was when… when you and I…"

He doesn't finish that thought, but he doesn't have to. I can't look at him now, and I certainly can't speak. I just wrap my hands around my ankles and stare out at the view, listening to his stop-and-start words, listening to the strain in his voice, listening to how much he hated himself.

"If it had just been me," he says after a while, "it never would have happened. I wanted you so badly, and it was practically all I could think about, but I never would have laid a hand on you. But then, when you did it first… and, fuck…" He runs a hand over his face, covering his eyes for a moment, before he goes on. "What I said in the loft that day was the truth. I knew I'd made mistakes and I knew they'd all come out if I tried to be with you then. What do you think your family would have said if they'd known about us? I was your teacher. All that shit I'd gotten into with Mimi? Living in Diana's basement? You know what would have happened."

"So you ran," I say.

"I ran." He nods. "Because here's the thing; if I stayed, I would have done it anyway. If I'd have stayed, I knew there was no way I could have kept away from you. And then I would have been doing exactly the one thing I swore I wouldn't do. I would have been sneaking you in and out Diana's basement apartment. Or maybe, you know, I'd have gotten my shit together and gotten out of that nightmare, but what then? I'd have just been some penniless artist in a squat in Brooklyn. I'd have ruined everything for you, and just… fuck. I might be an asshole, but I just couldn't do that to you. So I ran."

We're both quiet as I turn over everything he's just told me. Yes, what he did was awful, and I can't say it was okay, but I can see how it happened. But all that was all four years ago, and I've already come to terms with his mistakes from then. It doesn't explain the rest, though. The _worst_. It has no bearing on what happened last month. That's what I need to hear about.

We sit in silence until finally I'm able to ask a few questions of my own.

"Where did you go when you left?"

"Back to Evanston. It was my only option, really."

"So you were selling insurance?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "No. I was only there a few months. I was hiding, mostly, until I knew you had left for school. I was afraid if you were still in New York, I'd just end up hunting you down. Then my agent started calling me again. A painting sold and it made me feel better, like maybe I could make a legitimate go at it again. So I went back. I crashed on my friend's futon and I tended bar and I tried to find five free minutes a day to just paint. Whatever. I was trying. Mostly, my life sucked, but it sucked honestly, so I tried to feel okay about it. I couldn't find nearly enough time to paint, but the work I was doing was good, so I focused on that and just tried to keep my head down and stay out of trouble.

"Three years of that, though, and I was just about worn out. The economy sucked and art wasn't selling. Not just mine—anybody's. I started tending bar at my friend's place now and then, just to earn a little cash, but as time went on, it seemed like that was all I was doing. I lived in this shithole in Red Hook with three other assholes. I couldn't even set up a canvas to paint on, even if I could have found the time to do it. I was on the edge of giving up again. Evanston and insurance was calling my name. I just didn't know if I had it in me to fight anymore. I was feeling pretty bleak. That's where I was six months ago."

He stops again and just stares out at the skyline, his eyes unfocused.

"I need to tell you about the rest," he says.

I nod tightly. "Yes, you do. I can understand everything that happened in the beginning, but the rest…"

"I know," he says, holding up a hand to stop me. "Just let me tell you the whole thing, okay?"

"Alright."

"So, I worked at my friend's bar, right?"

I nod. He looks at me long and hard, like he's making sure I'm still with him as he goes on. I am. I can't stop now. I have to see this all the way through with him, no matter where it ends up.

"Another bartender there worked part time at the bar at The Plaza hotel. He got me hooked up covering a few shifts now and then. I hated that place. It reminded me too much of all those mistakes I'd made four years ago, all those people I was trying to avoid. But it paid a hell of a lot better than Jasper's bar did and rich people tip well. So anyway, last February, I was working a closing shift there when… when Tori came in."

I swallow hard at the mention of her name, but I don't interrupt.

"I knew her already, Mimi introduced us. But I hadn't seen her in years."

He stops and turns his head towards me, although he keeps his eyes averted. "I know you got a really shitty impression of her, but she's not all bad. She was in there that night drinking by herself. Her husband left her for his twenty-two year old intern. Tori's smart. She's got an MBA from Stanford and she gave up her entire career to be Mrs. James Hanlon. Then, after fifteen years of marriage, the asshole comes home and kicks her out of her own house so he can move his girlfriend in. She was feeling really shitty about herself and was just looking to get obliterated and forget for a while. She remembered me and we started talking. I was in a crap place in my life, too. I guess we had a lot in common that way. So she stayed and talked to me while I closed up the bar."

He stops and swallows and I see him fisting his hands. "I don't know how to say this and not make it sound awful."

"Just say it. I'd rather just know."

"It's not like she wasn't attractive. But mostly, I was lonely and she was, too. It only lasted a few weeks before I ended it."

My stomach is knotted painfully. I've already imagined him with her, but hearing him say it makes the hazy images in my head bloom into Technicolor. I hate it. I can hear my own breathing loud in my ears, and I lace my fingers together and squeeze tight.

"I knew it wasn't healthy for either of us," he continues. "Bella, I swear to you, it wasn't like before. She wasn't buying my fucking paintings or setting me up with a job or any of that other shit."

"But you were living in her building," I say quietly. Paintings or not, there was real estate and sex involved.

He nods and swallows. "Yeah, I was. She knew that my living situation was lousy. She said she was getting the warehouse in the divorce, but she couldn't sell it until everything was settled. It was just sitting there empty and she said I could use it as a studio for a while. I was desperate. Desperate to just spread out and get a fucking paintbrush in my hands again. Desperate for a little peace and quiet to work in. And it didn't seem like such a big deal at first. Just a favor between friends. I never should have said yes, but I did."

He buries both hands in his hair and sighs in frustration before he goes on, his voice hard and angry. "But this is what I need you to understand. It was done. She and I were over. As soon as I started staying at the warehouse, I knew it was a messy situation and was only going to get worse, so I ended the relationship. Yes, it wasn't exactly sex for rent or some fucked up shit like that, but it also wasn't okay. It was a grey area. _Really_ grey. And I knew it. She kept coming around, and I knew she was hoping we could start up again. I knew I'd gotten myself into a really bad scene. I was sick with myself that it even happened at all and I was working like hell to get myself back out of it. I applied for the fellowship and I had my eye on a place in the Bronx that I could afford. I was trying to get out of there as soon as I could. I was still crashing there, but only because I couldn't get the cash together for a security deposit on the new place yet. You have to believe that, Bella."

I nod, not looking at him, although I can feel him looking at me.

"It was… I know I should have sat you down and told you what my situation was from the start. But you and I…" He waves a hand between us. "It happened so fast. And, fuck… I knew how bad it looked. I didn't want you to know about it, honestly. I figured I'd get myself moved out of there and then I would tell you about it."

He trails off and I can feel him still looking at me, leaning towards me, desperate for me to tell him I understand. But I don't know yet. I don't know anything. He's just dumped a lot of stuff on me and I feel overwhelmed.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers.

I shake my head. "I don't know. Edward, she was in your studio. She just walked in and said all these things…"

"I know. I told you, she was still coming around, hoping to make something happen. She told me what she said to you that day. I'm so sorry, Bella. She was so out of line and… I can't even tell you what happened when I got back. Suffice it to say, it was really ugly. I was out of control. I got my shit out of there as soon as I could and stored it in Jasper's basement. I cut all ties. I swear it."

"Don't," I say, closing my eyes and holding up my hand. "I get it. I believe you. It's just, when she walked in that morning… it was like everything I thought about you and about us was a lie. Or like I'd made it all up in my head."

Edward shakes his head vehemently. "No. Everything between us is the truth. Everything I said to you about how I feel and what I want… that's what's real. I want you to know that."

"I do. It's... I still…"

"You don't trust me," he says simply.

Finally, I look at him. He looks tired, but determined. He doesn't look like a defeated man, not at all. "No, I don't."

"I haven't given you much reason to, I know. But I want you to trust me. This thing with us, it doesn't happen every day. You know that, right?"

All I can do is nod, because I _do_ know that.

"And it's important to me. It's the _most_ important thing. When I saw you that night at The Frick, I knew it wasn't over. All those feelings were still there. That's when I knew that I wanted something with you. There were still a million obstacles, most importantly that you were going to marry that asshole. But I didn't give a shit. I wanted to try. I _still_ want to try. I'm more sorry than I can say that all my stupid decisions hurt you like this and ruined things, but I'm not giving up. We can still make this work if you think you can try again with me. I'm a long way from perfect. I know that. I'm all wrong for you and I'll never be good enough for you."

"Edward, that's not true." I have to protest, because he's just being too hard on himself. After all, he just reminded me of my engagement to Alec. I've also screwed up and I've done some less than honorable things, too. But he holds up his hand to silence me.

"No, it _is _true. I don't deserve you," he says. "But I don't care. I want you anyway. And I plan on fighting for you until you tell me to stop."

"I don't—"

He cuts me off again. "Don't say anything yet. I came to tell you the truth and I've done it. Just think about it before you say anything. When you're ready to talk—I mean, if you want to talk—I'll be here."

"Okay. But… "

"Yeah?"

I don't want to say what I'm about to say, but I have to. This is the time for laying it all on the line. I don't think it will matter, but I have to know for sure.

"You should know—I mean, you know I'm broke, right? When I left, I _really_ left. Everything."

He stares at me with wide, horrified eyes. "You don't seriously think that's what this is about, do you?"

"No, I don't. Not really," I mutter, eyes on my toes. "But after what she said that day… Look, I just had to be sure."

Edward still looks wounded, but he just nods. "I guess that's fair. My actions haven't always said the best things about me in that regard. But no, that's not, and has _never,_ been what this is about."

"I believe you."

"This is only about you. And me."

I just nod. There's so much emotion overwhelming me that I'm afraid I might cry if this goes on any longer. But Edward seems to have said all he has to say for the moment. He exhales heavily and leans back. Then he drops his hands on his thighs, like he's getting ready to stand up.

"I'm going to leave you alone and let you think. I have some stuff to do anyway."

He sounds so matter-of-fact at the end that I almost laugh in spite of the heavy situation. "What on earth do you have to do in Forks? You just got here last night."

"I have to find a job," he says, completely straight-faced.

"Excuse me?" I'm blinking at him in shock.

"I said I wanted to fix things. I can't do that if I'm in New York. So I'm staying here until you tell me to go."

"Edward, you can't move to Forks."

"I already have, Bella." He straightens up off the step and stretches slightly.

"But… what about your work?"

He looks down at me and shrugs. "What about it? I can paint anywhere." He puts his hands on his hips and casts a long, measuring look at my backyard, the trees, and the mountains. "I'm thinking this might be really good for me. Inspiring, even. It's good for an artist to change things up, explore new places."

"You're crazy."

"Bella," he says with a sigh, looking back down at me, "This whole thing has made me rethink a bunch of shit. Not just about you. This is about me, too. I've spent a lot of years trying to make it in the New York art world. It hasn't been easy, and I think it's safe to say that some of my worst choices came as a result of that. So maybe it's time to try something different, in someplace different. It's time to quit focusing on the art scene and just focus on the _art_."

"Edward…"

But he doesn't let me finish. He just leans down and retrieves my forgotten coffee cup, along with his. "Is it okay if I leave my bag here for the day? It's a long walk into town. And to repay you for the use of your couch last night, I'll cook you dinner tonight when I come back for it."

I just stare at him open-mouthed, unable to form any sort of response at all. He grins, the corner of his mouth curling up, his even white teeth just barely peeking out. His eyes crinkle up a little. He leans towards me slightly, and for a second, I think he's going to bend down and kiss me. Everything in me goes on alert and my heart starts fluttering in a combination of anxiety and anticipation. But he doesn't come any farther. He just lifts the coffee cups a little.

"I'll wash these on my way out. See you later, Bella."

And he disappears back inside the house, leaving me stunned where I sit.

*0*0*

**A/N: **

Whew. I wrote most of this chapter months ago. It's such a relief to finally get it out of my head.

I know I've been entirely fail about replying to reviews on this story. My real life is kind of crazy and it's all I can do to keep up. But I do read them all and your enthusiasm has delighted and overwhelmed me. I'm so grateful to you all. A million thanks.

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	13. Like We Were Free

**Thanks to WhatsMyNomdePlume, who betas this mess for me!**

*0*0*

Edward is gone all day, which is for the best. He's left me with a lot to think about.

I spend the better part of two hours sitting right where he left me on the back porch, staring at the woods, just playing everything back in my head on repeat.

It wasn't as bad as I thought—not what happened last month or what happened four years ago. As much as the thing with Tori eats at me, I know it has nothing to do with me and I need to let it go. And the thing with Mimi? That was pretty bad, but he seems to know that now. And it seems like he's spent a lot of time trying to do better since then. Besides, who am I to judge his relationships, anyway? I was engaged to Alec up until a month ago. That was unhealthy and wrong on so many levels. Every time I think about it now I feel sick to my stomach.

We both made mistakes. We both sold ourselves short. And now here we are, both trying to make it right in our own way.

Which leads me back to the rest of the conversation. Edward is here. Edward is not leaving. Edward is going to fight for me. I can't figure out exactly how that makes me feel.

I can't deny that our connection is still there. I never really thought it was gone, even before he showed up yesterday. But is that enough? He was right; I _don't_ trust him, not fully. I want to, but he's hurt me before and now I'm scared. The events of the past month might have finally reduced Edward in my mind to human proportions, but they haven't lessened his effect on me.

He wrecks me. He makes me feel whole. I'm afraid of him. I want him. Forgetting all of it and just moving on would be so easy, but at the same time, little doubts keep eating at me, and I'm afraid of just how much he overwhelms me.

By mid-afternoon, all I know is that I don't know anything. Maybe that's okay. It's not the kind of thing that can be decided in a day, so maybe I should just quit trying to figure out the answer.

My brain is in over-drive and with no outlet for all my jumbled thoughts, I do what I always do when I'm confused. I call Alice.

The conversation is just ordinary at first. _How is Rose? How much longer is her rehab program? Is Emmett still going to see her?_

Then Alice turns her laser-beam attention to me.

"So how are things out there?"

"Fine."

"Fine? You don't sound fine."

"How do you know I don't sound fine?"

"You think after all this time I can't tell when you're not fine? What's going on?"

"Um… Edward's here."

There is a silence on the line that feels like it lasts several long minutes. When Alice speaks again, her voice could shatter glass.

"_What?_"

"He's here. He showed up at my house last night."

"How the hell did he find you?"

"He looked me up online."

"How did he even know you left town?"

"I don't know," I squeeze my eyes shut. "We didn't talk about that."

"Well, what _did_ you talk about?"

"Everything else. Like, _everything._"

"So what, did he come to beg your forgiveness for being a lying whore?" she snaps.

"Alice! Well, actually, yes on the begging part. But he's not exactly a lying whore. Just way more trusting than he should be, I think."

Alice lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Tell me the whole thing."

I tell her an abridged version of Edward's story. I try not to gloss over too much or diminish any of the events. Part of me wants to forgive him and let all of this go, but I also don't want to lie to myself or anyone else to be able to do it.

When I finish the part about Tori, and about the exact nature of her relationship with Edward, she makes a little cry of recognition.

"Tori!" she says. "Of course. She's Victoria Hanlon. I didn't put it together before. Edward's right; her husband's a dick. You should see the trashy little tramp he left her for. I hope she wrecks him in the divorce."

I sigh and fall back into the couch cushions. I don't want to get drawn back into this New York society gossip and I _really_ don't want to feel a lick of sympathy for Tori Hanlon. She may have gotten the shaft from her husband, but that didn't make it okay for her to do what she did to me. That had nothing to do with her husband and everything to do with me having Edward when she wanted him. I'm picturing her face that day as she looked me over, appraising her competition. I'm picturing her and Edward together and my anger, which had almost dissipated, flares back up, bright and hot. Maybe I haven't let all that go yet after all.

Alice's voice breaks me out of my mental wandering. "So what did you tell him after all that?"

"I didn't tell him anything. He didn't want me to. At least, not yet. He wants me to think about it."

She huffs. "That's actually really mature of him," she admits reluctantly.

"I guess."

"And what do you think?"

I let out a long exhale. "I have no idea, Alice. I'm so confused."

"Do you still want him?"

I wince and I draw my shoulders up, covering my eyes with my hand. Because this is what it's really all about. This is what's at the root of everything. What do I want? My voice, when I answer her, is small. "Yes."

She sighs. Alice has spent years dealing with Edward's effect on me.

"Isabella, be careful. Be so, so careful."

"I'm trying, Alice. I might want him, but maybe that's not enough. I'm not sure yet. A lot has happened."

"Just take your time. Don't rush."

"I won't." I hear footsteps on the concrete front walk. "Shit, I think he's back."

"Back? What do you mean _back_?"

"He's sort of… staying here. Well, he did last night, anyway. On the couch."

"Jesus. Be careful, sweetie. Promise?"

"I promise. As careful as I can be."

We hang up and just a second later, there's a soft tap on the door.

"Sorry," I say, when I open the door for him. "I was on the phone with Alice."

"Alice?"

"Alice Brandon? She went to… um, she was at Spencer with me." It's still so awkward to discuss, even in passing, that time when I was a student and he was a teacher.

"Right," he says tightly, and I think it's awkward for him to remember that time, too.

I look away from his face and notice that he's carrying bags from the grocery store.

"What's all that?"

"I told you I was making you dinner. You have no food in your kitchen. You're aware of that, right?"

"I told you I can't cook," I say defensively.

"But you can do more than starve. It looks like wolves have foraged through your cabinets," he says, giving me a little sideways grin before moving past me into the kitchen. He sets the bags on the counter and starts unpacking them, moving easily around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets and putting things away like he's lived here for ages, making comments as he goes. I know I should put the brakes on and demand that we hammer out some ground rules here. A plan. Something. But I can't help it. I like having him here. His presence is comforting and sets off a warm glow in my chest that I don't want to examine too closely. I just want to enjoy it.

"So, it's a nice little town, here—Forks," he says. "Kind of quaint. You know, all small town-Norman Rockwell."

I laugh a little at "quaint". "Sure it is. A little more Hopper than Rockwell, though, don't you think?"

Edward chuckles, too. "Yeah, you're right. Definitely Hopper."

"So, did you find your way around okay?"

"There aren't too many places to get lost. I think I have it all memorized already. Everybody's really friendly. Everyone was very welcoming."

"You were welcomed?"

"Well, I got a job, so I guess that counts as a welcome."

I just stare at his back. "You got a job? Today?"

"Yeah, crazy, huh?" He shoots a grin over his shoulder at me. "I just went into this place—The Lodge?—thinking I'd ask the bartender if he knew of any place hiring. The guy who owns the place was there and we got to talking. Turns out they could use somebody to help cover a few weekend shifts. It's not much, but it's a start."

"Seriously? You just walked in there and he gave you a job?"

"Well." He's grinning ear-to-ear now as he focuses on whatever he's prepping on the counter. "He might have liked my story, too."

"Story?"

"You know, the grand gesture, chasing the girl across the country… all that stuff."

"You _told _him that?"

"Waylon? Sure, I did. Not much happens in a town this small. I think he wants a front row seat for this. He says hi by the way."

"Who says hi?"

"Waylon. He knew your dad."

"You're unbelievable."

Edward just shrugs and keeps his eyes on the food. "I think it's clear that I'm not above working an angle if it gets me what I want. And what I want is a foothold here, so I can stay and, you know…work on this." Now he sets down his knife and turns to look at me, leaning his hip on the counter. "I'm dead serious about this, Bella. About you."

His face, his eyes are so intense that I have to look away. Careful. Be careful. I promised Alice I would be.

It would be so easy. All I have to do is take one step towards him. I know that. One tiny move on my part. But I can't do that yet. He seems to sense that too, because he inhales deeply through his nose and turns back to the counter. When he speaks again, his voice is lighter.

"Relax. I don't want to pressure you. I just want you to know that I'll be around."

"Okay," I nod. That's all the response I can manage, but it seems like enough for him. At least for now.

Things are easier after that. Edward is the one cooking, but he's not above drafting me to help. I'm pretty hopeless in the kitchen, but he finds little tasks that I can do, and it's fun. He talks non-stop and once we're working side-by-side, I forget to be anxious. I forget that I'm confused. I forget that he scares me. I forget that I'm being careful. I just enjoy him and his company.

"So how did you learn to cook?" I ask him, watching him carelessly scrape a cutting board full of vegetables into a sizzling frying pan.

"I'm not all that good at it, but I do alright. I don't know… I was on my own in New York for eight years. You can only live for so long on pasta before you just go nuts. So I taught myself a few basics. Nothing fancy. So…" he says, passing off the empty cutting board for me to put in the sink. "I take it you haven't had much call for cooking before now?"

I look up at him briefly and then back to the food. "We had a cook. Or I went out."

Edward nods tightly. "That's what I figured. So… is it too soon… can I ask, what happened with your family? Was it just because of me?"

I feel my face flush and turn away from him towards the sink. "No, you were just the trigger. You've seen what my mother is like. I just had enough. It wasn't ever going to change, so I left. Sometimes it feels like it was always going to end that way, no matter what I did."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not. Not really. It's hard, but it's better this way. I think I had to do this, you know?"

He nods slowly. "You're probably better off without her. Although I don't know if I would have found you without her help, even if she didn't intend it."

My head snaps up at that. "You went to see her?"

"Sort of. I went to see _you_. Turns out your mother wasn't kidding about having me arrested if I showed up at your place again."

I gasp, staring at him with my mouth hanging open. "No! She didn't!"

"Oh yes, she did. It wasn't a big deal. She didn't press charges, so they just held me overnight."

I groan and squeeze my eyes shut imagining Edward spending the night in jail because of me. I didn't think I could hate my mother more than I already do, but it turns out it is possible.

"I'm so sorry, Edward. I can't believe she would do that."

"It was a hassle, but no permanent damage. It's one of the reasons it took me so long to get out here. Legal stuff to clear up. _Anyway_, in all the shouting at your apartment, your mother let it slip that she thought you'd left town anyway. She said something about you probably going back to… um, 'that hellhole in Washington' or something." He air-quotes with one hand. "That was worth a night at the nineteenth precinct. So I guess I owe her one."

I spend a second trying to work out how she'd have known that I left town before it hits me: Alec. I told him I was going "home" when I left his office. That must be how she figured it out, and how Phil knew. Not that it matters at all. After all, Phil and Edward did something with that information. She hasn't.

"You don't owe her a thing," I snap. "And neither do I."

"No, you don't. She owes you. A lot. I told you they didn't deserve you."

I grin in spite of the tension. "You did. You also said you didn't either."

"I did. I also told you I don't care."

God, he makes me smile even when I know I shouldn't. He smiles back, staring at me for a second, before turning back to the cooking with a little headshake.

"So," he says after a minute. "I'm realizing this is something I should have asked you before now. Like, probably the second I got here. But you and that… um, _Alec_… is that… are you—?"

He doesn't look at me as he very intently shoves chopped vegetables around the frying pan. I'm a little shocked he even has to ask.

"No. We… I mean, I broke things off. Right after… the day after you and I—"

I just let that hang there and Edward doesn't say anything for a minute. Neither one of us has really made much direct reference to that day, to _that_.

"I figured as much. And are you okay about that?"

"More okay than I should be. It was all a mistake, right from the start. I'm kind of ashamed of myself for ever letting it get to that point."

"Why did you do it? Why were you engaged to him?" Edward's voice is thoughtful. He's turned his head towards me a little, but he's not yet making eye contact.

I blow a breath out and tuck my hair behind my ear. "I've asked myself that a lot. I think I was just lonely. I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't know what my life was supposed to be about."

"And he answered that for you?"

I shake my head. "Not really, but for a little while he seemed to. It seemed to make perfect sense."

"He was kind of perfect for you," Edward says quietly. My head snaps up so I can look at him, but he's still watching the food.

"That's not what I said. He wasn't. Not at all. Why would you think that?"

Edward shrugs a shoulder and waves one hand in my direction. "You guys were part of the same world. You with him... it kind of made sense."

"That wasn't my world though. You know that."

I can see him smile a little in profile. "Yeah, I guess I do. After all, you're here, right?"

I nod. "Anyway, I thought you said he didn't deserve me."

Edward chuckles. "He didn't. Fuck him."

That makes me laugh, in spite of myself.

On one hand, this feels good. It feels good that he wants to know about me, the good and the bad. I like that he cares and that he's fighting for me. On the other, suddenly it feels like we're on the same side of something, like we're allies. Me and Edward against the world. I kind of like that feeling, but it scares me, too. It's all too soon still. I don't know if I'm brave enough to take his hand and face the world together just yet. So I swallow hard and smile and change the subject.

"Okay, show me what you're doing so I don't starve."

He rolls his eyes and smiles. "Come over here, rich girl, and I'll teach you."

We finish cooking dinner and eat together at the little wooden table in the kitchen. It's surprising how easy it is to forget all the big weighty stuff between us and just _be_. I keep hearing Alice's voice in my head begging me to be careful and I imagine her here, scowling at me having a relaxed dinner with Edward in my kitchen. It makes me feel a little guilty, but not enough to make him leave. It's just dinner, anyway. It's not as if I've thrown my bedroom door open and invited him right back in to the most intimate parts of my life. Although, just thinking about that makes my face flush and my breathing get shallow. Edward doesn't seem to notice, as he rattles off a story about Waylon and The Lodge. I push down my inappropriate desire for him and focus on his words and not just on his lips.

After dinner, he helps me do the dishes and put everything away. Then he moves away, back towards the living room.

"I scouted out the motel today, so I'm going to hit the road… try and get the walk in before it gets too dark."

My stomach knots up. I don't want him to go, but I'm nervous about asking him to stay. If I do, does it automatically mean that I'm asking him back for everything?

When I'm too quiet, he turns and looks at me over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question. "What's wrong?"

I swallow hard. This can only work if I'm honest. If _we're_ honest. "I want to ask you to stay, but I'm still… I don't know… "

His shoulders relax and he smiles a little. I love his face when it softens into happiness. It's nice to see the gentle, boyish face I remember from when I first met him. It's been missing from this older version of him. "It doesn't have to be anything more, Bella. What this is right now, just talking, that's okay. It's more than I hoped for, honestly."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You didn't kick me off your porch the second I showed up. I consider that a huge victory."

"So, do you want to stay the night again? On the couch? I mean, it's stupid for you to spend your money on a motel."

"I'd love to stay. Thank you. I'll start looking for my own place tomorrow. It'll be easier now that I have a job."

I startle a little. His intentions shouldn't keep surprising me, since he's already found a job and he's told me flat-out that he's all in. But still, I feel like I'm keeping one foot on the floor, braced for disappointment, ready for him to leave. Waiting for him to decide that he really doesn't think he can do this after all. Waiting for him to realize that he's crazy and that I'm not enough to make up for everything he's leaving behind in New York.

At the moment, though, he doesn't seem at all sorry for what he's leaving. On the contrary, he looks delighted to be standing in my small, shabby living room. And for the moment, I'm delighted he's here, and I'm not going to look beyond that.

Last night I couldn't wait to escape his presence and run away to my room, but tonight, I linger. We sit on my couch and watch TV together. I settle on an old PBS show, featuring Sister Wendy talking about Italian Renaissance sculptures.

Edward rolls his eyes. "Seriously, Bella?"

"What?"

Edward motions at the television. "Sister Wendy?"

"What's your problem with Sister Wendy?"

He chuckles and shrugs. "Nothing, really. Just… you have a degree in Art History from Brown and you're watching Sister Wendy?"

I give a little huff, but there's no serious irritation behind it. He's teasing and so am I. "Don't be an art snob, Edward. I love Sister Wendy. She really knows her stuff. And art history is always better coming from a sweet English nun with a lisp. I thought everybody knew that."

He laughs. "Fine. Sister Wendy it is. Turn it up. I can't hear what she's saying with her funny accent."

Now I roll my eyes at him, but I turn it up and we settle in to listen to Sister Wendy tell us about Bernini.

It's nice. So nice. I know I need to be careful, and I will be, but I also won't shut him out. His presence is making me happy, and I won't deny myself that. The rest, I'll just figure out as I go. We're in no rush.

*0*0*

The next morning when I come downstairs, the house smells like coffee. He's left a mug waiting next to the coffee maker for me. I find him on the back porch with his black sketchbook in his lap. He doesn't turn as I step out on the porch, so I move behind him so I can see the page. I've never seen him sketch in pencil and it's fascinating. His paintings are wild washes of color. They're all about shapes and volume, not really about line. Drawing is a technical skill, and while I'm not surprised he's good at it, I am surprised by this different side of his creativity. When he draws, it's elegant, spare, and precise. He's got an unerring sense of which details to focus on and which to let go. The drawing leaves you feeling as if you could count every thin, spidery branch, when really, he's only drawn four.

"That's beautiful," I say.

I can tell he's smiling even though I can't see his face. "Thanks."

I lower myself to sit next to him and he raises his head to look at me. It's like I forget whenever he's not right in front of me—I forget that face, and his eyes and the slow, gentle smile that seems like it's just for me. Then when I see him again, the effect hits me all over again like it's brand new and I'm stunned for a moment.

"Good morning," he says, his voice soft, his brilliant smile not diminishing a bit. It fills up my chest with a warm effervescence that I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever.

I'm powerless to hold back my answering smile, just as wide, just as warm. "Good morning."

We sit together for another minute, just smiling, before he finally glances away at the woods and the mountains.

"I love it here," he says. "It's spectacular. It makes me feel…"

"It makes you feel like Turner, doesn't it?"

He glances back with a delighted smile. "Yeah. But not how it looks—"

"How you feel."

"Exactly."

"I knew you'd like it," I murmur, keeping my eyes on the rim of my coffee cup. He's looking at me, I can feel his eyes on my face.

"You were right. Did you think about me a lot out here?"

My voice is barely a whisper, but he hears me just fine. "Yes."

He doesn't say anything in response. He doesn't tease me, he doesn't confess any more deep feelings. He just sits with me and smiles. I sit and smile, too.

*0*0*

Edward spends most of his second day in Forks in town. He says he wants to check out the classified ads for rooms to rent, plus he wants to spend a few hours at The Lodge, getting trained on the bar set-up before his first shift on the weekend.

During her lunch break at Forks Public Library where she works, Angela calls. The second I open my phone, she's talking.

"Who's this guy that followed you all the way from New York?"

"What?"

"The guy! Is it _the _guy? The devastating guy?"

"How the hell did you find out about Edward?"

"Oh, his name is _Edward_. I like that."

"Angela, how did you hear about him?"

"Bella, this is Forks. Nothing ever happens in Forks. Nobody new ever moves to Forks. Except you. And now, Edward. Are you kidding me? _Everybody's_ talking about it. Shelly Cope was in returning some books. She told me he's an artist and that he chased you here all the way from New York."

I sigh and shake my head. Forks really needs a movie theater or something. I have no idea who Shelly Cope is or how she knows my life story. Angela won't be denied, though, so I give her the short version of Edward and me. She gasps and sighs all the way through it.

"So he's really moving here?"

I really thought Angela was above swooning, but she's proving me wrong.

"Um, so it seems. He's trying to find a place to stay."

"And then you guys—"

"I have no idea," I cut her off. There doesn't need to be any more speculation about us. I'm doing more than enough of that all on my own. "We just started talking again. It's all really uncertain right now."

"But still, Bella. He came all this way."

"Angela, I have to go."

"Alright, alright. But I want to meet him!"

"Uh… soon."

She laughs and hangs up the phone.

*0*0*

I'm in the swing on the front porch, my feet up on the rail and a book in my lap when I look up to see Edward walking up the road towards my house. The sun has started to set behind him, backlighting him in brilliant bright gold. His hair is fiery and wild. His strides are long and loose, his arms swinging slightly at his side. My heart turns over in slow motion in my chest in spite of myself.

As he crosses the front yard, he looks up and spots me, his smile taking over his face. I smile back and slowly straighten up out of the swing.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey. How was your day?"

"Brilliant."

"Really? That good?"

He shrugs. "I found a place."

"Already? What is _with _you?"

"Just luck, I guess. This woman, Mrs. Cope, came into The Lodge this afternoon while I was there. Waylon introduced us. Turns out she converted her basement to an apartment last year for her grandson, but he just moved to Seattle to go to school. So there you go."

I'm smirking, remembering Angela's lunchtime news, and Forks' rabid fascination with Edward and me. He's so cute, thinking he's just lucky when this Shelly Cope woman probably went there specifically to get him into her apartment. This is all much more benign, but I can see how it must have been with Edward and the art patrons back in New York. I can imagine them all jostling to get close to him, to be able to buy their own little piece of him by any means necessary.

"Well," I finally say, "That _is _lucky."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans on the porch beam, standing on the bottom step. "I might have worked a little charm on her, too."

"Always so charming," I say, leaning in, looking down at his smiling face.

"You think I'm charming?"

I roll my eyes and laugh.

"You're the only one I want to charm," he says, his smile fading.

"You always have."

The teasing moment grows serious. He looks down at the ground for a minute, then back up at me. "But you need more than charm."

I nod.

"I'll be more," he says quietly.

"And you need to be careful about how you spread the charm around."

He gets what I mean and nods again. "Only you. But does that mean I have to give up Shelly's apartment? It's a sweet deal."

I laugh and so does he. He moves up the next two steps to where I stand. My body flushes in anticipation at his nearness. I want to touch him, his skin, glowing in the sunset, his hair. I fist my hands at my sides to keep from doing it. His eyes, surprisingly bright in his shadowed face, never leave mine. The air around us gets thick and my stomach clenches with wanting him. His whole body goes still and his right hand twitches, like he wants to touch me, too.

Instead he gives me a small smile and moves past me towards the front door. He hasn't touched me since he got here. It's driving me crazy. I'm happy about it, because if he touches me, even a small touch, I'll want him to touch more, and I'll want to touch him back, and then we'll both be lost.

But I also can't stand it. The air vibrates between us whenever he's near me. I want his arms around me, I want his mouth, I want his body. I can't have any of that yet. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for, but I know whatever it is, I don't have it yet.

*0*0*

We slip into an easy routine for the next several days. I ask Edward to stay with me until his move-in date at Shelly's in a week. He starts picking up the odd shift at The Lodge. The rest of the time, he hangs out with me. Sometimes he disappears to the back porch to draw. I can tell he's itching to paint and he's getting frustrated with just a pencil and paper. All his stuff is back in New York, but he's made no mention of getting any of it back yet.

During the evenings when he's not at The Lodge, we cook dinner together and watch TV until bedtime. Every night, he tells me goodnight and he tells me to sleep well. He stays a minimum of two feet away from me and he doesn't lay a finger on me. Every night, I say goodnight back and climb the stairs to my room and I tell myself that I'm glad he won't touch me.

*0*0*

It's Wednesday and I've been down to the cable company to see if I can get something better than dial-up internet in the house. I don't have a computer yet, but Edward has a battered laptop, although it's not much good with the current internet situation.

It took way longer than it should have considering that I was the only customer, and it's mid-afternoon before I get back home.

As I climb out of my truck, I'm surprised to see Edward sitting on my front porch. I'm more surprised to see _how_ he's sitting. He's bent forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between his knees. His head is tipped forward and I can't see his face, but everything about his body screams defeat. I can't imagine what's happened. When I left hours ago, he was cheerful.

I approach slowly and lower myself onto the front step next to him. "What's up?"

He raises his head and lifts one hand, waving his cell phone in explanation. His face is bleak. "Margaret called," he says.

"Margaret? _My _Margaret? From the Van Lewen Foundation? What did she want?" I haven't talked to Margaret since the one brief call I made just before I left New York to tell her I was going. I didn't give her any of the gory details, but Margaret was her sweet, supportive self and we promised to keep in touch. I'm puzzled as to why she's called Edward.

One corner of his mouth curls up, but it's a long way from a smile. "I won the fellowship."

I gasp and my hands fly up to cover my mouth for a minute before I can speak.

"Oh, Edward… That's just… I'm so happy for you! I hoped you'd get it. You deserve it. Nobody more than you."

Now his smile seems real, but sad as he watches my reaction. "Thank you," he murmurs, looking down at his feet.

I can't figure out why he's so unhappy. This is such good news. A stipend for two years from one of the most prestigious art foundations in New York. The exposure and recognition his work will get… Then it hits me. New York.

"You have to go back, don't you?" I wrap my arms across my waist to ward off the late afternoon chill that I didn't feel until just now.

"No!" he says quickly. "I mean, not for good. The fellowship doesn't stipulate where I have to live. I can be anywhere. But there's a lot of publicity I have to do. And receptions and stuff. So yeah, I have to go back for a while."

I'm completely unprepared for the crushing disappointment I'm feeling. I've been convincing myself that we're just feeling each other out, exploring the possibilities between us. But I've gotten so used to having him here already. I depend on it. I can't picture him not here with me.

It's worse than that, though. The second he mentions the Foundation and New York, my heart starts to sink. I know all about those events and the attention winning the fellowship brings. This will put him in a whole new category of artists. They'll interview him for all the leading art publications. There will be receptions and an exhibit of his work. I know what kind of people will be courting him now. People like Mimi Weigert and worse. He'll be surrounded by them and their flattery and all their money. And he'll see everything he could be having, he'll see what kind of opportunities he has now and how easy it all could be. And maybe he won't ever come back.

He seems to sense that I've withdrawn deep into my own head and he reaches out for me, laying his hand on my forearm. I register the contact—he's finally touching me— but I hardly respond.

"Hey," he says. "Look at me. I'm coming back. I promise. I had to go back anyway. All my stuff is still in the basement of Jasper's bar. All my canvasses. God only knows what's been spilled on them down there. So I'll go, I'll pack up my shit and I'll do whatever it is that Margaret needs me to do for the fellowship and I'll come right back."

I nod, but I can't make myself look at him.

"Bella, please. I promise you. This is it. Here and now. I'm coming back."

"I know," I whisper. "Come on. Let's go inside and figure out how you're getting there."

He gives me a long searching look. He wants me to tell him it's all alright, that I believe him and I'm not worried. I can't do that. I _am_ worried. I feel like as soon as he leaves, this spell will be broken and he'll never make it back to me.

I squeeze out one weak smile to reassure him and he must decide that's all he's going to get. He slowly pushes himself up off the porch steps and follows me into the house.

*0*0*

**A/N:** Links to Sister Wendy (who really is awesome) and to the artists mentioned on my profile.

So The Art Teacher won a Golden Lemon Award for a lemon that didn't actually happen, which I find kind of funny. It was for the best cockblock (chapter 4). Thanks to all who voted for me!


	14. Hold the Moon

**I can't thank WhatsMyNomdePlume enough for all she does for me. More from me at the bottom: **

*0*0*

"You could come with me," Edward says, almost a whisper. He's leaning against the passenger door, his head on the window, his fist rhythmically tapping against the glass. He's been in that position, staring out the window for most of the hour-long drive to the airport in Port Angeles. We've been almost entirely silent.

My breath catches and I want to. I want to be right at his side for everything that comes next for him. But at the same time, I want nothing to do with that world and I _know_ I'm not ready to face New York yet.

Besides, he needs to go do this on his own. He needs to see just what New York would mean for him now, in light of winning the fellowship, without me there as some kind of obligation or promise to be kept. Once he's there and he's dealt with it, then he can decide what he wants. And then… I don't know. Will he come back? In the three days since he got Margaret's call, he's sworn that he will a dozen times. But part of me, a really big part, doesn't want to believe it. He left me once and I had to get used to it. I've spent many years making myself adjust to the idea of never having Edward. It's odd, but now it's the possibility of _having _him that's hard to fully embrace.

It's not that I don't believe him when he tells me he's coming back. He's telling me what he knows is the truth, _his_ truth. But I'm terrified to let it be my truth, too. Because if I do, if I believe, and he changes his mind…

"I can't go back there," I finally say. "Not yet. I don't know when I can."

He nods, but keeps his eyes focused on the damp greenery on the side of the road. "I know. I figured."

We lapse back into silence for the last little bit of the drive.

I park the truck and trail after him into the almost-empty airport. He doesn't have any luggage to check, just the duffle bag he had with him when he showed up in my front yard. Once he's gotten his boarding pass, there's nothing to do but walk him to the security entrance. There's no line, of course, just one very bored-looking older woman watching us approach. She perks up when she spots us, smelling drama in the air. Edward stops a few feet shy of her podium and turns back towards me, taking a step closer.

"I'll call you as soon as I get in."

"Sure," I say, working hard at keeping this relaxed and easy. No expectations. I want to just let him go to do the things he needs to without his promises to me dragging at him.

"Good luck back there," I finally tell him. "You're so talented, Edward. You're going to be brilliant, no matter what you do."

Edward stares at me for a second, his eyebrows drawn together. Then he abruptly drops his duffle bag and reaches out to touch my face. His palm is warm and smooth on my cheek and I suck in a breath. His thumb rubs across the top of my cheekbone.

"Don't do that," he says, his voice low and rough.

"Do what?" My eyes are already starting to burn with tears.

"You're saying goodbye to me forever, like I'm not coming back. Don't you dare do that."

"Edward…"

His other hand comes up and now he's gripping my face and bringing me in close to him. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he opens them again and looks at me.

"I'm coming right back. As soon as I can, Bella. I promise. I told you that I wasn't leaving unless you told me to and I meant it. I'm _coming back_."

"Edward, it's okay," I whisper, trying to calm him down. "We'll talk when you come back." My mind is whispering "if", but for his sake, I say "when".

He nods tightly, then presses his lips hard against my forehead, like he's trying to leave an imprint of himself there. I close my eyes. I can feel the warmth of his body, so close to mine. Oh God, I've wanted this. But I promised myself that I'd let him go with no expectations and no hopes. I told myself that I couldn't want this or feel this, not yet. But his words and his desperation and his hands are making me want him. It's making me miss him before he's gone and wish for his return before he's even gotten there.

He's still cradling my face, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath across my lips. Then he turns my face up a little and he's kissing me. It's soft, slow and thorough, like he's memorizing me with his lips and tongue. Just like that, he owns me again. He always has, really, but his kiss won't let me forget it or pretend it's not true. It makes me ache with longing even though he's right in front of me. I want to wrap my arms around him and hang on tight, but if I do that, he'll never go, so I just hold onto his wrists, steadying myself, while our lips explore. He sighs into me then he gently releases me.

Two more soft kisses to my closed lips and another one on my cheek, and then he shifts back.

I'm barely holding back tears and I feel so cold when his body moves away from mine.

"I'll see you soon," he says, looking me straight in the eye as his hands slide free of my hair.

I wrap my arms around myself, just holding it together until he's gone. Just hold it together. I don't say anything in return, just nodding as he backs away and lifts his bag onto his shoulder.

He hands over his boarding pass and I.D. to the security guard and a moment later, she waves him through. He stands there staring at me for another long moment. His face is so full of huge human emotions—longing, sorrow, want and loss. I just can't help it. The tears start falling and I can't hold them back any more. Edward raises the fingers of one hand to his lips, touches them, then makes a fist before he turns away. I watch him go, his shoulders hunched, his spine curled forward, hands stuffed into his pockets. It reminds me so much of the day four years ago in front of my apartment, when he walked away from me just the same way. That time, it was years before I saw him again.

I've been on my own for most of my life. As a child, my overworked father did the best he could, but there was never enough of him to make up for the mother who'd abandoned me. As a teenager, surrounded by nearly everything life had to offer, all I was aware of was everything that was missing. In college, I spent years missing a man I barely knew. And since then, I wandered like I was in a dream, about to marry a stranger, trying to fill the holes in me in all the wrong ways. Through all of it, one thing was always constant— I was always lonely.

But never in all that time did I feel as alone as I do right now.

*0*0*

I need a job. I've been in Forks for almost two months and I don't have one yet. Edward got a job the day after he got here—it makes me feel like a slacker.

The house is paid for outright, thanks to my father's life insurance, and I have a little bit of money coming in from his monthly annuity from the police department. I'm still thinking about going back to school for my Master's, but that will have to wait until next fall, if I can work out some kind of financial aid. I was serious when I told Phil I wasn't touching the trust fund. I'm determined to do this on my own steam, which means getting a job, even if it's just a temporary one. I need to get busy and do something with myself. It also might help distract me from thinking too much about Edward.

I've made myself this promise: I'm allowed to miss him, but I can't wait and wish. I have to keep moving forward, I have to keep living for myself. If and when he comes back to me, that's when I'm allowed to think about the rest, the possibility of a future with him.

While Edward may have found a job right away in Forks, I'm not so lucky. The economy is bad and nothing much is happening. I expand my search to Port Angeles and that's where I hit pay dirt. I get hired at the Pacific Coffee and Tea Exchange, a little coffee shop along the touristy main drag near the waterfront. It's run by this fantastic older woman who seems completely taken with my art history background, even though I've never held a job in my life and I don't know the first thing about making coffee. But she seems to like having me around to talk to, and as for making coffee, I can learn.

After my first couple of shifts, I'm exhausted but exhilarated. I _love_ making lattes all day. There's something soothing about the passage of time there. I can forget everything else and just focus on mastering steaming the perfect pitcher of milk. My whole world shrinks down to the foam on the milk and when I get it right, I feel immensely satisfied. I'm sure at a certain point, the novelty will wear off and I'll come to despise everything having to do with coffee, but right now, I'm flying high on my first job.

I relate every detail with enthusiasm to Edward that night when he calls. He chuckles all the way through my story, amused at my passion for serving over-priced coffee. But he's glad I found the job and that it's making me happy.

He sounds tired and exasperated, like he does every time he calls. He's gotten through the luncheon with the board of the Van Lewen Foundation, and the official awarding of the fellowship. He's got several interviews lined up in the coming weeks, and still the gallery reception to get through. That's still a few weeks off.

In the meantime, he's crashing at his friend's apartment over the bar where he used to work and packing up all of his paintings that aren't in the exhibit later in the month.

"I miss you," he sighs into the phone. I can hear laughter and voices and glasses clinking in the background, so I can tell he's in the bar. He spends most nights there, and when it gets busy, he jumps in to help out, to pay his friend back for the use of his couch.

I close my eyes and press my palm against my cheek, remembering his hand there when he said goodbye at the airport. "I know," I whisper.

I never say it back. He never presses me to. I think he knows. He knows what I'm waiting for, what I need, and why I can't give in and just _love_ him, not yet. He doesn't make any more lofty promises, or pledges of undying devotion. He just talks matter-of-factly about the logistics involved with wrapping up his New York life and getting himself back to Washington.

I listen and remind myself not to hope.

*0*0*

"Bella, you wouldn't believe this guy."

"Which guy? The one from The Times?"

"No, the guy who interviewed me for _Art in America_ two days ago. What a pretentious prick," Edward says, and I feel like I can almost see him rolling his eyes through the phone. "It was so hard to keep a straight face for two hours. The guy was wearing an _ascot_. Who does that?"

I laugh and nudge the refrigerator door closed with my hip. I'm making myself lunch while I talk to him, my cell phone wedged under my cheek.

"What are you doing?" he asks. He always asks me to tell him what I'm doing, what I'm watching on TV, what I'm wearing.

"Making lunch."

"Oh, yeah? What are you cooking?"

"Um, grilled cheese."

Edward pauses, then laughs, "Seriously?"

"Yes," I huff. "It's the only thing I know how to make besides canned soup."

"Jesus. Thank God I taught you that much or you'd waste away."

"Very funny."

"I'll teach you some other things when I get back," he says casually. I clear my throat and don't respond.

After a minute, he starts talking again. "Hey, so I had a visitor last night."

"A visitor where?"

"Here. At the bar."

"Oh, really? Who?" I say, bracing for what might come next, wondering which ghost of Edward's past, which rich art-lover has tracked him down at his friend's bar.

"Alice."

My head snaps back and I nearly drop the phone and the slice of bread I was buttering. "Alice? _My_ Alice?"

"That's the one."

"What? Why the hell was she there?" I'm replaying my last conversation with Alice from a few days ago in my head. She said Rose was about to get out of rehab and start an outpatient therapy program. She said she was joining the board of the ASPCA. I told her about my job, and Edward's interview with _Art in America_. No, at no point did she make any mention of going to see Edward.

Edward clears his throat. He sounds a little uncomfortable, but also like he might be smiling. "She wanted to put me on notice."

"Excuse me? On notice for what?" I'm going to kill Alice, if it's possible to kill someone through the phone line.

"I screw up, I die. That was pretty much the gist of it."

"She said that?"

"More or less."

"She's dead."

"Look, it was sweet. She loves you, and she's worried about you. I think she just wanted to make sure I was on the level, you know? Looking at us from the outside, I get why she would be nervous. I don't look so good on paper."

"Still, it was presumptuous. How did she even find you?"

"She called Margaret. The foundation needed my temporary address while I was here."

I close my eyes and groan. Poor Margaret, getting dragged into the soap opera of my personal life. I'll have to call her and apologize. After I call Alice and kill her.

"Okay, so she put you on notice. What did you say?"

Edward pauses for what feels like ten minutes. "I just told her how I feel."

"Oh. And then what?" I don't ask him what he said. If he's going to say that stuff, then I want it to be to my face, not through a phone line and related from a conversation with someone else.

"I bought her a drink."

"That's it? You bought her a drink and everything was fine?"

"Well, I'm not sure yet."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure because they haven't come down yet."

I let my breath out in a huff. "Quit being cryptic, Edward. Who's 'they'?"

"Alice and Jasper."

"Jasper? Your friend Jasper? The Jasper that owns the bar?"

"That's the one."

"You mean Alice and Jasper…?"

"Yup. He came over last night to introduce himself and sort of… diffuse the situation. They started talking and—"

"She stayed there with him?"

"Seems so."

"Wow. Okay… um, this Jasper guy, is he on the level? He's not some creep, is he?"

Edward laughs. "You two are really cute, looking out for each other. And you do realize that you're doing exactly what she did, don't you?"

"Yeah, but I'm asking _you_, not cornering Jasper. It's different. Which is why you have to tell me about him."

He chuckles and sighs before continuing. "Fine. Yes, Jasper's totally on the level. He's my best friend. And he seemed really into her."

"Does he know about her money?"

Edward pauses for a while. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure he does. But Jasper's not like that. I really don't think it will matter to him."

Now I feel bad, like such a bitch, making awful assumptions about Edward's best friend. "I'm sorry. It's just… sometimes people have more than one reason for wanting to get to know you when—"

Edward cuts me off, "No, I get it. They way you guys live—well, when you were still here—I'm sure it's hard to know what people are really after. But Jasper's not one of those people."

"I believe you. Just tell her to call me."

"Uh, no way. Call her yourself. I'm not getting involved in Jasper's sex life."

"Edward—"

"The only relationship I'm getting in the middle of is mine with you," he says, and I feel my face flush.

"Fine," I murmur, once I recover from that. "I'll call her myself."

*0*0*

My calls to Alice go to voicemail for three days. Alice never, _ever_ ducks my calls. Finally, on the fourth day, she picks up.

"Thank God," I say when she answers. "I thought maybe you died."

"I'm fine," she says, her voice unnaturally bright.

"Well, you never know. Last I heard, you were disappearing up the back stairs in some dive bar in Red Hook with a strange guy."

There's silence on the phone. "Edward told you."

"Yes, he did."

"Jasper's amazing," she says defensively. "So don't give me a hard time."

"I'm sure he is. That's not really what I was getting at, though."

"It's not?"

"Nope. You went to see Edward. What the hell, Alice?"

She sighs. "I was just really worried about you, Iss. After everything you've been through with him, I just wanted to make sure he was serious about you. That he wasn't going to be… careless."

"And?"

"What he said about you… how he said he felt—"

"Don't tell me," I say quickly, scrambling back from the edge of something I'm not sure I'm ready for. I'm certainly not ready to explore it with _Alice_.

"Okay," she says gently. "But he seems like a good guy. And he's trying so hard."

I can't believe Alice is actually trying to sell me on Edward. Like he needs that kind of help. "I know he is. So," I say after a second, "tell me all about this Jasper guy."

Alice doesn't stop talking for a solid twenty minutes and it makes my heart swell. I think there finally might be someone to take care of Alice the way she's always taken care of everyone else. Part way through her monologue, she pauses for air and texts me a picture. I have to smother my gasp of surprise with my hand when I open it.

It's a little blurry and dimly lit, clearly snapped on her cell phone inside the bar. Fierce, light blue eyes peer out from under shaggy blonde hair nearly to his shoulders. He looks amused and like he's about to roll his eyes at the same time. His arms are crossed on the bar as he leans forward, and his flannel shirt is rolled to the elbows, revealing sleeves of tattoos all the way to his wrists. Another dark scroll of ink covers the left side of his neck disappearing behind his ear and under his hair. There's a ring in his lower lip. Her family will melt down when they find out he runs a bar in Red Hook. And when they_ see _him… there are no words to describe the fury that will rain down on her. Alice had ancestors on the Mayflower and no one in her family has lifted a finger to work in generations.

But Alice doesn't seem to care about any of that. She's crazy about this guy already. She'll figure out the rest. I did; she will, too. I just hope her path is easier than mine has been, and this Jasper guy is up for the challenge.

*0*0*

Edward calls me from the cocktail reception of his gallery exhibit. He's supposed to be talking to the Van Lewen foundation donors, the rich people who endow the fellowship and will probably buy his art. And he does talk to them for a couple of hours, but by ten o'clock, he's hiding in a stairwell, talking to me.

I'm sitting on my couch in the dark, my knees pulled up to my chin, my eyes closed, listening to his voice in my ear.

"This is it," he says. "This is the last big thing they need me for. So I'm heading out the day after tomorrow."

"Are you sure you shouldn't stay a little longer? In case any of the paintings sell and your agent needs you or something?" I could kick myself for saying it, but it's only logical and I want him to be smart about things.

"Fuck it," he says with a tired sigh. "They can sell a painting without me. I'm leaving."

I pause, thinking about what I want to say. "Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't run away."

He snorts in laughter. "Very funny coming from you."

"I didn't run away," I protest. He laughs harder. "I just left… quickly."

"Yeah, try telling that to the guy who was chasing you."

That makes me laugh for a second, too. When I sober up, I go on. "But the difference is I had nothing to hold me there. You do."

"And you think this is all about me running away from it?"

"I don't know. But I do know that I can't save you. It can't be all about me. That's one thing I feel like I've figured out since I left. One person can't ever save you. You have to save yourself first."

I can hear his slow steady breathing on the phone and I hold my breath, waiting for him to respond.

"That's not what this is about. I told you when I first got to Forks that I was re-thinking all this shit. Me, New York… all of it."

"I know. But you've had time to go back. It's different now. You can see that, right?"

He scoffs softly. "Yeah, I guess it's different. I mean, I definitely have a higher profile than I did before. That would make things easier for me. Logistics and everything. But in all the ways that matter, this place, these people, won't ever change. When I'm here, it becomes about so much more than painting. In a bad way. It's… I just can't be here anymore. And it just so happens, I have someplace better to go anyway."

I let my breath out slowly, so relieved that I can hardly stand it. "If you're sure."

"Absolutely sure."

"Okay, then. Hurry back."

He laughs and the tension evaporates. "Hey, I have a surprise," he says.

"What?"

"I bought a truck. I'm _driving_ back."

"You bought a truck?"

"Yeah. This hipster asshole who lives near the bar bought it a while ago. I guess he though it would make him more legit or some shit. Anyway, once he realized what a pain alternate side parking is, he decided it wasn't worth it. It's been parked in front of Jasper's bar for ages. So I made him an offer and it's mine. I needed something to drive once I'm out there anyway. And now I can get all my stuff back in it."

My heart starts to pound. This is real. He's coming back in just days. It's all planned and it's happening. I've weathered his long stay in New York and so has he. Now he's finished and he's coming back to me, just like he said he would. I let out a long, shaky breath and plant my palm against my chest to steady myself.

"Hey, you okay?" Edward asks.

"Yeah, just… you're coming back."

"I told you I would, Bella."

"I know, but—"

"Believe it. I'll be there soon. I miss you."

I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. "I miss you, too."

It's the first time I've let myself say it. I hear his exhale through the phone, and I'm almost certain that I can hear him smiling.

*0*0*

My phone rings next to my bed and I groan, rolling over to find it. I crack one eye to look at the time. Four a.m. I'm sure my shift at the coffee shop doesn't start until one this afternoon, so it's not them. I glance at the screen. Edward. My heart thuds once, in anticipation and dread.

"Hey," I say, my voice still thick with sleep.

"Hey," he says breathlessly. "Oh, fuck. It's really early there. I'm sorry. I was just in a rush and I forgot."

"It's okay."

"I'm getting on the road right now."

I sit up in bed, now fully awake. "Now?"

"Yeah, it's seven o'clock. I want to get in a big day of driving. I don't know if I'll have to stop for the night or not. I want to try not to, but—"

"You need to sleep, Edward."

"I need to see you," he says, and I can't help smiling.

"I don't know if I'll be able to charge my phone or anything. I can't do it in the truck. So I don't know if I can call from the road."

"Save your battery. I'll…" I stop and swallow. "I guess I'll see you when you get here."

"You will. Go back to sleep, Bella. I'll be there soon."

"Okay."

We hang up, but sleep is impossible. I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and counting how many minutes it will be until he's here.

*0*0*

The next two days pass at a crawl. I have to work shifts at the coffee shop both days, which helps a little, but I'm distracted and unhelpful. I think I give people regular when they ask for decaf and the foam on my steamed milk is pathetic. I'm an embarrassment to baristas everywhere. The second day after Edward's call, I push my truck as fast as it will go on the long drive home after my shift, hoping against hope that he'll be there. I've done the math though, and there's no way he could make it here already. I know it, but it doesn't keep me from wishing I could re-write the laws of physics.

He hasn't called since his early morning phone call before he left. I didn't expect him to, but just the same, my insecurities feed on the silence. I can imagine a million reasons why he'll change his mind and turn back. There are so many things to tie him to New York. There are so many reasons why he should stay, and only one reason for him to go. There, he could have anything. Here, there is just me.

I'm hoping. I'm counting on him. I told myself over and over that I wouldn't, but I can't help it. If he doesn't come back, I'll be devastated. It will be worse than that morning in his loft in New York. Every time I think about it, I can barely breathe.

I think about making a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner, but my stomach is in knots and eating is impossible. There's nothing on TV that can hold my interest. I wind up just wandering from room to room for hours. He probably stopped to sleep last night. In fact, I hope he did. I hate the thought of him driving for two days straight without a break.

The more I think about it, the more certain I am that he stopped for the night. I'm in the middle of re-figuring the driving time, factoring in a rest stop, when I hear the sound of an engine out on the nearly-deserted state road.

I'm out on the front porch in moments, feeling ridiculous, like a little girl waiting for Christmas to come. It seems that Edward always does this to me, reduces me to a desperate, trembling girl. I've stopped fighting it. There's no help for it. He will always do this to me.

Arcing headlights cut through the dense pines as a vehicle turns onto my street and my heart starts to pound right out of my chest. I want to laugh when I see the truck. I thought mine was old, but Edward's truck is an artifact. He could probably make a fortune selling it to a collector. I can't believe he just drove it across the country without stopping. It's a miracle that he's made it here at all. It's green and covered in patches of rust. The fenders are big bulbous things and the bed is long and shallow. The back of the truck is so loaded up with stuff that it dips lower than the front. I see the corners of canvases poking up through the blue nylon tarp covering the bed. He's brought everything that matters to him all the way across the country, here to me.

The truck stops in the front yard and I'm plunged into darkness as the headlights cut off. I can barely see Edward as the driver's side door screeches open, then slams shut.

Then I see him. He's striding across the grass, eating up the distance in huge long strides. He takes the front steps two at a time and then he's here, right in front of me. His hands are reaching out, sliding into my hair, cupping the back of my neck, pulling me forward into him. My hands find his shoulders, wide and solid under the soft washed flannel of his shirt. I feel the warmth of his chest and stomach pressed against my chest and stomach. I can barely make out his features in the dark of the porch, but it doesn't matter, because in seconds, the distance is closed and he's kissing me. Hard.

His fingers curl in; his hands are so warm. His mouth is just desperate. Before I know it, my arms are wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him down and closer. He shifts his weight and his knee slides between mine. I take a sharp breath through my nose as I feel his tongue swipe across mine. He tastes like bitter coffee and Edward.

Edward moans and takes a clumsy step into me. I fall back against the front door. His hands are everywhere; fingertips stroking down my cheeks, my neck; hands curling around my shoulders; palms sliding down my arms, fingers digging into my hips. His mouth leaves mine and it's on my neck, his tongue, his teeth…

Then his arms are sliding around me, pulling me in tight against him, just holding me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding him, too. He's warm and hard and all his edges fit so perfectly against me. Jesus, I _missed_ him. I bury my face in the hollow under his jaw and just inhale him. His head drops down, almost to my shoulder and I hear him breathing, deep and uneven. I run my hand up the back of his neck into his hair and he sighs.

"I love you," he says into my neck, kissing my skin as soon as he says it.

I gasp and try to turn my head to look at him, but he's kissing his way back to my mouth, tiny presses of his lips, and whispering in between, "I love you, I love you." I give up trying to look at him and just kiss him back, showing him instead of telling him. _I love you, too._

"Inside," he mutters.

With effort, I pull my head away from his. He's still got his face turned down to me as we take deep breaths to steady ourselves. His hair is brushing my cheek. I reach up and cup his face with my hand, feeling the prickle of two days of beard growth. His hand darts up to cover mine, holding it to his cheek. He turns his face and presses a kiss to my palm. Everything in me melts. I want him so much. I don't know how I can stand it anymore, or how I've stood it this long.

I fumble with the door and lead him inside, blinking at the relatively bright living room after the cold dark front porch. At the foot of the stairs, he turns me back towards him with a hand on my shoulder. I catch just a glimpse of his tired, haggard face and his tousled hair before he's on me again, setting fire to every part of me he touches. The stairs stretch out endlessly behind me, so far to go.

"We don't have to yet," Edward whispers, kissing down my neck, tugging the edge of my shirt aside, kissing my collar bone once he can reach it. "Not if you're not ready."

I put a hand on either side of his face and pull it back up to mine. "Yes, we do," I say, before I kiss him again. Any semblance of restraint he's shown is gone after that. One arm wraps tight around my waist and the other hand splays against the staircase wall to steady us as we stagger up the stairs, him advancing, me retreating.

We back into my little bedroom, where he's never been, and he walks me all the way to the edge of my bed. It feels so right that he's here with me at last. It's like we've always belonged together, but could only really _be_ together in the right time and place, and that's right here and right now.

Edward's hands are at the hem of my shirt, pulling up, stripping it off me. I let him, but as I lower my bare arms, I hold his face again, making him stop and look at me. As much as I want this, I want him to know what it means to me, too. Since he came after me, he's been so honest and brave, and all I've been is afraid.

There's just enough pale moonlight coming through the window to pick out his features and wash them in blue. I rub my thumb over his high cheekbone. He smiles, a soft little curling at the corner of his mouth. I trace the edge of his bottom lip with my fingertip. He's so familiar now, and cherished. Not the exotic, beautiful god I first met. Now he's real. Lovely, flawed, whole and _mine_. His face, still as beautiful as it's always been to me, is so much more now. I love every plane and crease, I love every freckle and line. And I love _him_. So much that it hurts.

"I love you," I say, still tracing his mouth. His lips fall open as he looks at me. I can't make out his exact expression in the dark, but I imagine it mirrors how I'm feeling— this expanding, aching warm glow, filling me up from the inside out, to every corner and out to the edges of me and then beyond. This feeling makes me bigger and better than I am. It makes us more than the sum of the two of us.

He exhales, his warm breath blowing across my fingertips. "I love you, too," he whispers, but I already know that. He loves me. When he leans in to kiss me again, it's slower, gentler, and so deep, like he wants to take his time to feel every second of this and remember it.

After a while, he pushes me back on the bed, and I pull him down to cover me. Slowly, one piece at a time, we lose the rest of our clothes. Each time something else goes, we take our time to explore what's underneath. By the time he's over me, between my legs, ready to push in, he's spent ages touching me with his hands and his mouth. I'm boneless and so ready for him. He's dragging in deep breaths, his face buried in my neck like he wants to inhale me whole.

The rest is as slow as what's come before. I don't want to rush through it. I want to feel this, feel _him_, until I've memorized it all, inside and out. It's sweet and gentle this time. There's no desperation, no panic, no tears. Because this isn't the only time or the first time. And definitely not the last time. This is the beginning of us, a beginning that took four long years to find us.

As we drift together afterwards, he rolls to his side and pulls me flush against him. Together we watch the shadows that the trees make move and shift across the ceiling. Edward sighs and it's a sound of contentment that I feel in my bones.

I don't know what will come next, not for me and not for him. I can't be his only answer, and he can't fix everything that's gone wrong in my life. But it doesn't matter. We're not here to be perfect, only to be together. We're just two small people in a small house at the edge of the big dark woods, with nothing but the rest of our lives stretching out in front of us. But I'm not afraid of the vast unknown because for the first time in my life, I am not alone. We'll live in the moment and let each of those moments knit together to fill up the blank canvas of our life. There's no telling what our picture will look like, I just know that it will be us.

*0*0*

**A/N:**

There's a tiny little epilogue coming up. I'll try and post soon, but it might not happen till the weekend.

I can't thank you enough for all your lovely, thoughtful reviews, PMs and tweets about this story. I started writing this on a whim to keep myself busy while I sorted out what to write next. I never expected this kind of response to it. Your enthusiasm, support and encouragement have meant the world to me. Thank you.


	15. Epilogue

**Thanks again to WhatsMyNomdePlume for helping me puzzle this one out. **

**This is super-short. Just a peek down the road into the future.**

*0*0*

It turns out that you really _can't_ go home again.

Forks worked for us for a little while. Edward settled into Shelly's basement apartment, I stayed on in my house. But he spent almost all of his time at my house when I wasn't working at the coffee shop. We passed through that first winter and spring together in a haze of art and work and each other.

He was right about being able to paint anywhere. We turned the bedroom that used to belong to my dad into Edward's studio and he painted up a storm either there or out on the back porch, which was another of his favorite places. He was also right about the change being good for his art. He went in whole new directions once he was in Forks, and turned out canvas after canvas of brilliant work.

But Edward's career was jump-started by winning the fellowship and the interest in his work was hard to manage from a tiny town at the dead end of the country. Since he was now a Pacific Northwestern painter, galleries in Seattle started inviting him to exhibit. Eventually, he was making trips there two and three times a week to deal with his work. By spring, I was accepted into the graduate program at UW anyway, so the choice was clear. We moved to Seattle together in the late summer.

Neither of us went back to New York until two years after we left and when we did, it was just for Alice and Jasper.

As I feared, Alice had to face a lot of misery because of him. Her otherwise completely absent family suddenly took a rabid interest in what she was doing once they knew she was serious about him. Her parents couldn't be persuaded to come back from Europe to deal with it, but her grandparents went on the attack. When they threatened to disown her if she didn't give him up, she took the portion of her trust fund that was already under her control, bought herself a townhouse in Boerum Hill, and called their bluff.

There were long months of no communication except through lawyers, but Alice held her ground and Jasper moved in with her. When she sent her grandparents the invitation to their wedding at St. Ann's in Brooklyn Heights, they finally caved. That was the first trip back for Edward and me. It was fun to watch Alice's lock-jawed, blue-blooded grandparents stand stiffly at the back of the church trying not to stare at Jasper's heavily tattooed and pierced friends and neighbors. They'll never truly warm to him, but in the end, they chose not to lose Alice, and I have to give them a little credit for that.

My mother didn't make that same choice. I never spoke to her again after that morning in our apartment. She moved to Florida and got married again, to some guy that ran a chain of low-rent law firms that specialized in quickie divorces. It was a big step down from Phil, but a gold-digger of her advancing years couldn't be too choosy. I heard about it through Alice, not from her and sometimes it bothered me, the way she turned away from me without a backwards glance. But Edward helped me to see that there was never much of a relationship there to begin with, so there wasn't much to mourn.

Some things just can't be fixed, and she and I were one of them.

Phil was true to his word and became a friend to me…to _us_. I didn't see him often, but whenever business took him to the West coast, he'd always make a detour and we would meet him in Seattle for dinner. He was kinder to Edward than I ever expected, and in the end, that's what made me trust, and eventually, love Phil. He never judged us or our choices. He really only wanted to see me happy.

And I am happy. _We're_ happy.

Edward and I may have started again in Forks, but Seattle is where we really build our life together. I throw myself into my studies in grad school, and Edward throws himself into his work. Even though he denies that he was ever bored in Forks, Edward likes being in a big city again. It's the perfect fit for both of us. Big enough to feed our hunger for culture, but still far, far away from New York.

Phil never gave up about my trust fund, and while I will never take all of the money back, I am finally caving a little. It's been five years since we moved to Seattle, and Edward has stumbled on a studio space that he's fallen in love with. The entire building is for sale. It has a storefront downstairs, an apartment on the second floor, and the whole top floor is a sprawling, open studio with a skylight and a wall of windows, flooding it with fantastic light. Phil has managed to convince me to take what I needed from my trust fund to buy the building. He says it's his gift to us.

We rent out the storefront for a couple of years, but eventually I'm able to pursue the dream I hatched in graduate school: I open a little gallery of my own.

It's a smaller life than either of us would have had in New York, but it's just the right size for us. Things in Seattle are quiet and simpler than New York, and Edward gets to focus on the one thing that always mattered most to him; his art. There are still agents and patrons to deal with and sales to make, but the pressure is less and I'm there to deal with it with him.

He's free most days to just paint. I'm free to work in the gallery downstairs, choosing the paintings I want to exhibit and the artists that inspire me. The rest of the time, it's just him and me, finally free to be what we were always meant to be.

*0*0*

**A/N:** Thanks again, all you lovely readers, for coming along with me as I told this story. It's been such a fantastic experience. A few people have asked if I'm working on another story and yes, I am. I have something percolating, but I like to have quite a bit written before I post, so it will be a little while before anything goes up.

I know I've mentioned writing an Edward POV outtake and I've decided to do it as my contribution to the Fandom for Sexual Assault Awareness compilation. It's a really good cause and a donation as small as $5 will get you the entire compilation. There are over 90 fantastic authors writing one-shots and outtakes for it, so please check it out and consider contributing.

http : / / fandom4saa . wordpress . com /

Thank you for reading!


	16. F4SSA Outtake

**I wrote this outtake for the Fandom For Sexual Assault Awareness Charity drive. In the end, they raised over $10,000 for a great cause. Thanks to everyone who donated for the outtake and thanks to F4SAA for allowing me to share it with you!**

**This is in Edward's pov and covers the same time frame as chapters 9-11 in The Art Teacher, or the "morning after" through Edward's arrival in Forks. **

*0*0*

"Gimme two plain bagels and two coffees."

"Black?"

"Um…" I have no idea how Bella takes her coffee. I'm not sure if she even drinks coffee. Everybody drinks coffee, though, right? I also have no clue about the bagels, but I figure it's a safe bet since she's a New Yorker. "Can you just throw some sugar packets in the bag? And do you have any of those little creamers?"

The guy behind the counter nods as he wraps up the bagels. It's a little troubling to me that Bella is such a blank slate. She doesn't feel like one to me. After last night, it feels like we know everything important about each other that there is to know. The little details about how she takes her coffee and whether or not she likes bagels I can figure out later.

I should feel exhausted, since we barely slept last night, but I'm not. I should feel terrified, since I'm stealing this girl away from her life and I'm up against some pretty formidable people who won't want me to succeed. But I'm not. I feel good. I feel amazing. I feel like I can do anything. I feel like I want to crawl back in bed with her and not come up for air for a week. I know she has to go, but the idea of letting her out of my sight, even for a minute, is unpleasant. I wonder if I can convince her to let me come with her. She probably should go see her stupid fiancé on her own, but fuck it. I don't want her to.

I'm also afraid that if she leaves me for even a minute, all of this will just disappear. Those assholes in her life will get their claws back into her and change her mind about all of this. I don't know what to do to keep that from happening, though. All I can do is make sure she knows that what we are is real and that no matter what they throw at her, I'll be there to help her handle it.

I take my change and leave the bodega, picking up my pace on the way back to the warehouse. I can still smell Bella all over my clothes and now I want to get back to the real thing. I want to touch her again, kiss her, remind myself that it's real. We're real.

I pull out my keys when I get close, but then I notice that the steel door is slightly ajar. I know I didn't leave it that way. I wouldn't have left it open with Bella upstairs alone. Anxiety twists in my chest. If she freaks out and bolts, changes her mind about this, I don't know what I'm going to do. She has every reason to, I know that. There's nothing I can offer her to make up for what she's giving up. Just myself. I have to hope that's enough.

I take the stairs two at a time, my pulse speeding up the higher I climb. The steel door to the loft is open, too. Panic curls in my chest. She's running. She ran. I'm already trying to figure out a way to get to her, to get her alone and talk to her, as I slide the door open all the way. I'm not at all ready for what's waiting inside.

Tori is leaning on one of the support columns in the middle of the room, arms crossed over her chest, her face bored. She's got her mask of indifference on, but I can feel the anger rolling off of her.

Fuck.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" The words are out before I know it.

She just raises one eyebrow at me. "It's my building, Edward."

I exhale hard. "Yeah, whatever. Why are you here? Where's Bella?"

The second I ask it, the dread that was hovering in the corners of my mind overtakes me. I can't see her anywhere in here. The door downstairs was open. My stomach twists. I feel sick. _Fuck._ I'm so stupid. Bella's not here. Of course, she's not. Why would she still be here if _Tori _is here?

My mind is racing and it takes me a second to register that Tori's talking again. Her voice is light, but the venom in her words is unmistakable.

"Bella? She has a nickname. Cute. I'm guessing you mean Isabella Dwyer, since that's who I found crawling out of your bed when I stopped by. I must say Edward, you do aim high."

I'm grinding my teeth together so hard that I'm pretty sure I'm about to crack one. "What the fuck did you say to her?"

Tori pushes off the column to stand up straight. "Nothing, really. Just that I was surprised that you had such… esteemed company."

This is the universe mocking me. This is payback for every bad choice I've ever made, all coming home to roost in the form of the thin red-head in front of me. I always knew it was a mistake and here it is, turning out to be the _worst _mistake I've ever made. I'm so angry and panicked that I can barely see straight. I'm across the room in just a few strides and I've got hold of her upper arms tight enough to leave bruises. Like I care.

"Goddammit, just tell me what you said to her, Tori!"

She drops her veneer of sarcastic indifference in a flash and the tough-as-nails fighter thatvlives under her surface rears up. "I clued the little twit in to why she was _really_ here and what you're _really_ after."

I stare at her for a second, eyes wide, inhaling huge lungfuls of air. When I can speak again, my voice is practically a roar.

"What the_ fuck_ do you know about her and me? It has _nothing_ to do with you. You and I are over. History. You have no idea what's between us and you had _no _right to come in here and fuck with her." I'm shaking her hard. Her eyes flash with anger.

"Do you _really_ think you can pull this one off, Edward? Isabella Dwyer? You think her daddy's going to pat you on the fucking back and welcome you into the family? What we had going is one thing, but this is entirely another. You can't fuck around with a girl like that. Besides, isn't she engaged? What do you think you're going to do about that?"

"She's leaving him!"

Tori startles. Then she _laughs._ She fucking laughs in my face. "For _you_?" she gasps, when she can get herself back under control. "You think she's leaving her father's golden boy for _you_? Wow, I thought _she _was the deluded one, but it seems you're just as crazy."

"You don't know a fucking thing about this, Tori," I spit, thrusting her away from myself in disgust. She stumbles but doesn't fall.

I'm angry, _so_ angry, but I'm also scared. Because she's right. This is crazy, _I'm _crazy, for thinking I can get her away from all this. My heart is pounding and I can't catch my breath. My hands are clenching and unclenching, just trying to do something with all this out of control panic.

Tori chuckles as she straightens up and adjusts her coat. "Don't I? I think I understand a girl like Isabella Dwyer better than you ever could, Edward. And if you think she's going to give it all up and run away with you then you're not as smart as I thought you were. And I understand _you_. I know what you are. You expect me to believe that you just _happened_ to fall in love with an heiress?"

My hands fist. I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head. Never once in my life have I wanted to hit a woman, but I want to fucking _deck_ Tori. It's all I can do to keep myself from doing it. Instead, I lash out at the room, surging towards the rolling cart full of paint tubes and brushes. I flip it up, hurling it half way across the room as I scream out my frustration. If it scares Tori, she never lets it show. She's a tough cookie. Almost nothing shows unless she lets it.

"Get the fuck out of here," I gasp. "You've done enough damage."

She sighs dramatically. "You forget where you are, Edward. It's my place."

"Fine, then _I'm_ going," I turn towards the door.

"Edward, stop." I pause just long enough to look back at her. Her face has gone soft, and I can see the vulnerability that drew me in in the first place. "Just… don't be stupid. This is a losing game you're playing. Her family will crush you like a bug. But me… us… this could be good. We were good, weren't we? You don't need her money. I can take care of you."

I feel nauseous. I want to just collapse, but I can't. I have to get out of here and find Bella. And I have to get myself away from this mess once and for all. I let it linger for far too long and look what's happened.

I want to scream at her. I want to let her have it, shout her down, tear her to pieces for assuming that I can still be bought that way. But my eyes shoot around the room, still littered with my paintings. All my best work is here for the studio visit. My soul is in this room. This room that's _owned_ by Tori. Some tiny part of me knows I can't make this too ugly on my way out or I might never see these canvases again.

When I speak, my voice isn't loud and angry, it's tired, defeated. "Tori, I don't know what you thought you were doing here, but that was never what this was about for me. You can believe me or not, but I was with you because I actually liked you."

She opens her mouth to speak and takes a step towards me, but I hold up a hand to stop her. "Who I _thought_ you were. I'm sorry that you thought you had to buy me. You were wrong then and you're wrong now. I'm not for sale."

I don't wait for her response, I just stumble down the stairs and out onto the street. There's a gypsy cab cruising by and I leap into the gutter and slam my hand down on his hood to stop him. It's not hard to guess that Bella went back home, so that's the address I give him. I remember everything about her from back then, including where she lived. I throw every bit of cash in my wallet at the guy and beg him to get me there fast.

When I get there, the doorman is ambling slowly up and down the short stretch of concrete in front of the glass doors. I remember this guy. He was the same one who whisked Bella away from me four years ago, the day of the blackout. There's no way he's going to be okay with me just hanging out in the open and waiting for her to go out or come in.

When he's facing the other way, I duck behind one of the potted box hedges flanking the door and crouch to hide myself. It doesn't take long, maybe ten minutes, for a yellow cab to pull up to the curb and for Bella to step out. I swallow hard and fight down the impulse to leap at her. She's got her face tipped down, eyes on the sidewalk. She doesn't respond to the doorman at all when he helps her out of the car. Her hair is damp and pulled back off her face. She's so pale and there are dark smudges under her eyes.

I can't even imagine what it was like for her to deal with Tori, and I'm terrified that she hates me. I just need to get to her and try to explain. If I can make her see how hard I was trying to fix things, maybe she'll understand.

When she passes in front of me, I make my move, stepping out into her path and saying her name. She stumbles away from me, desperate to avoid my hands. Jesus. When I think about last night, and then I see her cringing away from me like this… I want to break something.

"You need to leave," she says, her voice low and raspy. She makes to push past me and I can't let her. I can't just let her walk away.

I reach out and grab for her. "Just let me explain…"

"I don't want to hear it!" She shouts. I've never heard Bella sound so angry and it startles me. Then her doorman is there, with his hand on my arm, tugging me away from her.

"Is there a problem, Miss Dwyer?"

"No problem," I snap, "I just need to talk to Isabella."

I crouch down a little so I can catch her eyes with mine, so we can block out all these other people. This has only ever been about her and me, all we need to do is shake off everyone trying to get in between us.

"Bella, please…" I murmur, trying to reach her. "It wasn't what you're thinking."

Bella suddenly raises her head and her eyes lock on to mine, hard and angry. "Does she own that building?"

I freeze inside. She knows. She knows all about it. I feel stripped bare and made small. I can't even answer her. I drop my eyes to the ground. Anything is better than the disappointment and anger I see in her face.

"Then there's nothing else to discuss," she says, taking a step back.

I'm losing her. I fucked up and I know it, but I can't undo it now. I can only try my best to fix it. For that, I need her to stay put and listen to me.

"Damn it, will you just let me talk to you about this?" My fear makes me sound angry and that damned doorman is there again, trying to angle himself in-between us, planting his hands on my chest.

"Listen, friend, Miss Dwyer told you to go, so you need to go now."

"Bella, please," I plead over his head, "just talk to me!"

The doorman shoves me again and the fucker just needs to take his hands off me. I'm so sick of every goddamn person on the planet trying to get themselves in between me and her. I shove him back, trying to get him out of my way. Bella scrambles further away and I curse under my breath. Then her mother is there, standing in the doorway, examining the whole fucked up scene impassively.

"Isabella? Is there a problem out here?" Her voice is smooth and disinterested, but I know better than that.

"Everything's fine," Bella murmurs. I try and catch her eye again so I can plead, but she doesn't look anywhere near me.

Instead, it's her mother who talks. "It's Mr. Cullen, isn't it?"

The bitch knows exactly who I am and she knows I know it. I'm familiar with this maneuver. That's how they show you how inconsequential you are to them.

"He was just leaving," Bella snaps, still keeping her eyes averted. I'm starting to panic. If her mother gets her claws into her, I know I'll never get my chance with her. At least not now.

"Bella!" I shout, but she ignores me.

"Mr. Cullen," Renee Dwyer says, "I hope you haven't come to our private residence to harass my daughter. That would be extremely unwise of you."

"I _came_ to talk to _Bella_," I snap. "This is none of your business."

"My daughter _is_ my business."

I can't help but scoff. _Business_. Isn't that the truth? That's all she ever is to this horrible woman. Her daughter is just business.

"I think we're done here, Mr. Cullen. You'd better go inside, Isabella."

I open my mouth to protest, but Bella just turns away and walks inside just as the doorman grabs my arm to keep me from following.

Renee Dwyer pauses just long enough to say something to the doorman over her shoulder. "If Mr. Cullen comes here again, call the police and report him for trespassing,"

_Fucking bitch._

Then she's gone. She's gone and Bella is gone with her.

"You heard Mrs. Dwyer. You'd better clear out before this gets ugly." He releases my arm with a little shove and I stagger back. I stand staring at the place where Bella was just a minute ago, trying to figure out what happened and what to do next. I need to get inside. I need to talk to her. But it's not going to happen today.

The doorman is still standing there, arms crossed over his chest, glowering at me.

"Don't make me tell you again, friend. Just go."

And I'm done. I've been defeated today. I know I need to keep working, keep fighting. But I don't know what else to do right now, so I do the only thing I can do—I retreat.

*0*0*

It takes me forever to get to Jasper's. A bus, two subways, and a really long walk. It's late afternoon before I do. The bar is open, but there's hardly anybody in there. A couple of neighborhood old-timers, hold-overs from before Red Hook's modest start at gentrification. The hipsters won't show up until much later tonight.

Jasper is at the bar, making small talk with his regulars while he dries and stacks glasses. He glances up as the door opens and lets a bright shaft of sunlight in from behind me. He only looks for a second, eyes narrowed, then he drops his eyes back to the bar.

"It's a little early to see you around these parts," he says evenly. But he knows something's up with me. Because he's Jasper and he just _knows_.

I slide onto a stool and prop my elbows on the bar, digging my fingers into my hair and fisting hard. My eyes feel swollen and gritty and I hurt all over.

"What's up?" he says after a minute.

"I don't even know where to start." My voice sounds strained and low. Without another word, Jasper pulls a beer off the tap and slides it in front of me. My favorite. He knows without having to ask. He crosses his arms and leans back on the counter behind him, just looking at me, waiting for me to unload. When I don't say anything, he sighs and prompts me.

"This about Bella?"

"Yeah," I finally manage. "I think I really fucked up. No, I _know_ I did."

"So you guys are…"

"Just last night. She was at the studio tour. You know… for the fellowship. I asked her to stay after and…"

I wave a hand that doesn't begin to encompass last night and all that happened, but Jasper nods in understanding. "All good so far. So what happened?"

"Tori happened."

Jasper whistles through his teeth and shakes his head. He only met Tori once, but he made his dislike of her crystal clear. I should have listened.

"What'd she do?"

"She let herself into the loft and said a bunch of evil shit to Bella while I was out getting coffee."

"Damn," Jasper mutters.

"Yeah, you could say that. I went to her place to try and clear it up, try to explain, whatever. But she wouldn't talk to me and then her fucking mother was there threatening to have me arrested. So I took off. I don't know what to do. Jasper, what do I do?"

I finally look at him, because I am just lost here. He's still examining me with no emotion.

"Fuck," I mutter, moving to get up. "I shouldn't have left. I'm just going to stand out front until she comes out again. Fuck the cops."

"Sit down," Jasper says. "That's not going to help anybody. She's freaked. Understandable, since some other chick with keys walked into your place while she was there."

I groan and drag my hands through my hair. "I can't believe Tori would do something like that."

"I can," Jasper snorts. "I told you to watch out with her. She was way too possessive of someone she wasn't even seeing anymore."

"I know, I know. I was trying, okay? You know I was."

"I know you were. You just can't trust chicks like that. All that money warps the mind."

"Not this again." I hold up a hand to stop him before he launches into another diatribe against capitalism, America's ruling moneyed class, the oppression of the working class, Republicans, and any number of other evils.

Jasper huffs but says nothing.

"So you think I should give her space?"

"Not a ton of it. You need to get in there and fix this. But maybe not today. Besides, if you show up again now, you'll just get arrested. That's not going to help."

"Fuck," I mutter again, because it's the only thing to say that at all sums up what's happened. "I don't even know what to do next. Everything's a mess. I gotta get out of the loft. Like, _yesterday_."

"What about that place in the Bronx you were looking at?"

I shake my head. "I can't wait that long. You didn't see how things went down with Tori. All my paintings are there and she's got keys. It's her building. She could do anything."

Jasper nods in understanding. "You really think she'd mess with you like that?"

"I don't know anything anymore. A week ago, I'd have said no. I thought she was just lonely and trying a little too hard to hang on to something that wasn't working. But today? She was pissed. Hurt. And she can be mean as a snake when she wants to be."

"Look, you can crash here for a while on the couch upstairs. I'll call some guys, see if anybody's free. We can go over first thing in the morning and get your stuff. You can stow everything in the basement for now. At least till you figure shit out."

I finally look up at him and squeeze out a smile. "Thanks, Jasper."

"No problem. That asshole, Hayden's had his motherfucking truck parked in front of my bar for two months. It'll be nice to finally get some use out of it."

"I appreciate it," I mumble into my beer.

Jasper shrugs. "You're going to have your hands full fixing the rest of this mess. The least I can do is help you out with this part."

I nod and take a long pull on my beer, the first of many I plan on drinking tonight, trying to figure out how I'm ever going to get to Bella and what I can possibly say when I finally do.

*0*0*

I feel like a freaking stalker, staking out the front of Bella's building from across the street a day later. I stay tucked behind the corner of a contractor's truck so the doorman doesn't see me loitering.

In the end, it took us all day yesterday to clear my paintings out of the loft. Because of the studio tour, I'd brought a lot of canvases back from various places they'd been on display—local restaurants, bookshops, coffee shops. Every painting of note I'd ever done had been there. Thank God it all looked untouched since I'd walked out, but all the same, I wasn't in the mood to take chances.

Besides, when I finally get myself in front of Bella, I need to be able to say that I'm out, all the way, no more grey area.

Now, thirty-six hours later, I'm back, ready to fight my way in by any means necessary. Well, I'm really hoping it won't come to a fight, since being arrested isn't appealing, but whatever it takes.

I know enough at this point that I know I won't be able to get inside and upstairs to her place. In buildings like this, I'd need a key to access her floor anyway. My best hope is to catch her going in or out.

After seven hours on the sidewalk, starting early in the morning, there's still no sign of her. I'd seen her step-father leave early this morning, then later on, her cow of a mother went out and came back an hour later. But not a hint of Bella.

My only hope comes mid-afternoon when the doorman who's been on all morning, the same one that I got into a shoving match with two days ago, goes off duty, replaced by a younger guy I don't recognize. I'm praying that the older guy hasn't passed on my information or left a note or something.

Once the coast is clear, I duck around the van I've been hiding behind and cross the street. I walk straight up to him, hands in my pockets, feigning a confidence I don't feel. I smile a little when I start talking.

"Hey there. I'm here to see Isabella Dwyer. Can you buzz me up or something?"

He smiles politely and I breathe a small inward sigh of relief. He doesn't seem to know me at all.

"One moment, let me just call up."

He presses a few buttons and waits. I sweat bullets. The phone buzzes and buzzes. No answer. The reason why is clear to me a second later when Renee Dwyer strides through the glass doors. She pulls to an abrupt halt when she sees me talking to the doorman. I will myself to stare right back at her.

"Mr. Cullen," she says, long and slow. "I thought I was perfectly clear the other day when I told you to stay away from our home."

_Jesus, I hate this woman._

"That's not for you to decide. I need to talk to Bella."

"I think you'll find it's _all_ for me to decide," she sneers at me. Then her eyes cut to the doorman. "Call the police, Paul."

I gape at her for a second. She's fucking serious about this?

"Bella's an adult. You can't make these decisions for her."

"I can decide who enters my home and _you're_ never getting in."

"It's Bella's home, too. Goddammit, she deserves to know I'm here!" I'm yelling now, which is just plain fucking stupid. So much for all my planning. This whole thing has immediately spiraled out of my control. The _cops _are on the way. Things are going to get ugly. But I don't even care anymore. I feel helpless and angry and this horrible woman has planted herself between me and Bella and she's going to catch it all from me.

"You have no business here, Mr. Cullen," she says, her voice low and seething. If possible, I think she hates me even more than I hate her. "You've had your fun with her but she's got a real life to get back to and there's no place in it for you. Do yourself a favor and just walk away. I can make this very bad for you."

"Fuck you!" I spit at her. "Don't you fucking threaten me like you own the world! You don't own her!"

"No, I don't own her, but I own her life, which amounts to the same thing, don't you think?"

"You think she cares about your money?"

"And you think she doesn't? You presume to know her very well."

"Better than you, I'm betting."

"If that were true, you'd know that she's not even here."

I startle, because that's not at all what I expected to hear. "Where is she?"

Renee Dwyer has been staring me dead in the eye for our whole heated exchange, but now, for just a second, her eyes dart away, her face is uncertain. She's been bluffing this whole time. Bella's not up there, carefully ensconced back in her luxury lifestyle, under her control. In that moment, I'm absolutely certain of it.

"Tell me where the fuck she is," I say, with as much menace as I can muster. The doorman is hovering right behind me, but he's younger and less certain of himself than the other guy was. He seems reluctant to actually put his hands on me. If this goes any further, though, I don't doubt that he will.

Renee's eyes swing back to me and all her fire returns. She's furious, livid. "I haven't seen or heard from the ungrateful little bitch since the day before yesterday. She's gone."

I feel punched in the gut. All the air leaves my lungs in a rush. _Gone_.

"Where?" I whisper.

"I have no idea. If I had to guess, she's run back to that hell hole in Washington. She can rot there for all I care."

I shake my head, unable to stand her talking that way about Bella, about her _daughter_. This woman is a monster. "Don't you dare talk about her that way."

"I'm going to remind you one more time that you're on my private property, so you don't get to dictate _anything_ to me, Cullen. Now, you're going to stay the hell away from here once and for all, because obviously, there's no reason for you to come back, is there? You've done enough damage already. Are we clear?"

As if to punctuate her declaration, a cop car pulls up to the curb, sirens blaring, lights flashing. People in the South Bronx could wait for forty-five minutes with somebody bleeding to death, but Renee Dwyer is _bothered_ and they're here in a heartbeat. I hate these fuckers and their power over everything in the world. I hate it all.

Two uniformed cops are out in a flash, and one grabs each of my arms, pulling me back away from Renee Dwyer like I was assaulting her or something. I don't even fight it, I just let them take me. But I'm not done with her, not by a long shot.

Renee is standing in the same spot, watching me get hauled away, her face dispassionate.

"I'm going," I shout at her, "but you listen to me. I'm going to find her, I swear it. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life showing her how amazing she is. I'm going to try to make up for the utter failure of _you_. You fucking disgust me."

Her eyes go wide and her face is white with fury, but I just turn away, letting the cops shove me face-first against the side of the squad car. I don't protest or fight as my hands are wrenched behind my back and the cuffs are slapped on. Nothing they're doing to me, nothing Renee Dwyer can do, is any worse than what I've already done to myself.

*0*0*

Thank God I'm arrested on a weeknight. The holding cell is nearly empty. Just me and some guy brought in for drunken disorderly, but he's passed out now, sleeping it off. I use my one phone call to call Jasper and then I just sit on the bench with my head in my hands, thinking.

I think a _lot_.

I think about everything I've done—every choice that I made since leaving school—that have led me to this one, really low moment. Because let's face it—cooling your heels in a jail cell is a giant wake-up call from the universe telling you that it's time to re-evaluate your life choices.

I think about the first, really _giant _bad choice—Mimi Weigert. I still feel sick to my stomach about that, even four years later. It feels like I'll never wash off the filth of that, the stain it left on me.

I think about the degrading, destructive path it put me on, a future littered with women just like Mimi. I'd already taken the first step with Diana. Thank God the thing with Bella happened then, as painful and ugly as it was. It slapped some sense into me, and scared me straight, at least for a while.

I think about all the compromises and sacrifices I've made along the way, all for the sake of my art. My art is me—there is no dividing line. And somehow that seemed to justify everything for me.

No, that's not entirely accurate. As I sit here with only a chipped grey concrete wall to stare at, I realize it wasn't some pure impulse to create that drove me. Not entirely. It was the need to have my creation recognized by others. Because what good is a painting if it's just you in a room with it alone? What does it even mean if it's not on a wall someplace, if people aren't looking at it and talking about it?

And that's where the problem lies. I remember when I first got to art school and I would barely stop painting long enough to put something up for the teachers to critique. I had so much to get out, so much I was desperate to put down on canvas. I didn't care who saw it or what they thought about it. It was all about me, what I thought and felt. What other people said about it was an afterthought. What happened to me since then? Since when did what people's opinions about my art become more important to me than the work itself?

In the end, I can even trace Tori to that same destructive drive for success. Yes, I'd stopped trading in myself. I worked honest hours for honest money. But I still felt defeated. I felt cheated. I felt like a failure. Why? I was painting. The work was decent. Why was I in such a dark place when I met Tori? Because I hadn't sold a painting in a year? Because I was still pouring booze to pay the bills? What was wrong with me that I couldn't just be satisfied with that life? Why was a little flattery from Tori enough to turn my head?

And what the fuck was I thinking when I moved into her building? Yes, the whole thing had blown up in my face, but ultimately that saved me from myself. Because what if Bella hadn't stumbled back into my life last month? What else would I have done to make my path a little smoother? Would I have let Tori do me a few more favors? Pay for a few more things? I don't know the answer to that and that makes me feel sick with myself.

No, it's clear I need a change. A major one. Bella comes first. I have to find her and fix this mess. But I also have to fix me. I need to get away from this life and this scene that seems to be turning me into someone I don't even know anymore.

Renee Dwyer chooses not to press charges. I suppose I should feel grateful for that, but the cops still manage to hold onto me until eight the next morning, even though Jasper was there by midnight. I doubt it was just paperwork that held it up. Renee seems able to fuck with me no matter where I am.

Jasper drives me back to the bar and I pass out on his couch for several hours, since I didn't sleep at all the night before. When I wake up in the afternoon, it's time to make a plan.

Calling Bella is obviously a bust. There's no way she'll answer me, or anyone else for that matter. If Renee's hunch is right and she's gone back to Washington, then there's only one course of action—I have to go there, too.

I fire up my laptop and try to figure out where to start. I cast my memory back over every interaction I've ever had with Bella, trying to remember some clue that might tell me where she is. In the end, the answer is simple: her father. There's no way I'd ever forget the story she told me, about losing him in the line of duty. Likewise, there's no way I can forget her name… her _real _name. Swan.

I type _Swan Washington police_ into Google.

The first hit is a link to an article from a newspaper in a town called Forks.

"Beloved Police Chief Shot and Killed in the Line of Duty"

It's a long article. Forks is apparently a small town and the death of Officer Charles Swan was very big news. There are quotes from traumatized, grieving citizens and a biography of Officer Swan's simple, shortened life. There is, of course, a mention of his young daughter, Isabella, and the information that she'll be cared for by her mother, who lives "out of state". I'm betting when they wrote the article, they hadn't even found her yet. I'm furious at Renee all over again, but that won't get me anywhere, so I try to let it go.

Okay, then. Forks, Washington. A few more google searches and I've uncovered property records for a house in Forks owned by one Charles Swan. The title to the property changed hands ten years ago and is now held by an I. Dwyer. She still owns the house she grew up in. It's the best I've got to go on.

A quick look at google maps tells me that Forks is about as far west as you can go in America before you fall off the continent. And it's tiny, tucked away between a massive national forest and the ocean. How am I ever going to get there?

I've already guessed that I can't afford a plane ticket, or even a bus ticket, but I check anyway. No dice. So my next stop is Craig's List. I post an ad under ride shares, hoping for at least Seattle. If I can get that far, I can figure out the rest of the trip to Forks.

After that, all I can do is wait. I start picking up shifts at the bar for Jasper. I want to do it for free, to pay him back for everything he's done for me during this mess. But Jasper won't hear of it. He points out that I'll need cash for my upcoming cross-country trek, and I have to admit that he's right, so he puts me back on payroll. There's stupid legal shit I have to deal with because of my arrest, but nothing too dire and that situation gets resolved fairly painlessly. Outside of dealing with that, all I do is work and think.

A week after I post my ad, I get an offer to share a ride with this kid from Hunter college. He's dropped out and he's headed back home to Seattle. He seems sketchy, but I don't have a lot of options, so we strike a deal. I pay for gas, he hauls my ass across the country. It's the best I can do.

A week later, I thank Jasper for his endless help, pack the bare minimum in my old army surplus duffle bag, and hit the road with Tyler.

Tyler is stoned when he picks me up and he stays that way for our entire torturous cross-country saga. To make matters worse, once we hit the road and it's too late for me to back out, he announces that he wants to make a couple of stops to see friends along the way. He makes it out like it will save us hotel fare, which I reluctantly admit would be a good thing.

Friend Number One lives in Louisville, Kentucky, which is the entire state of Ohio away from our route. I bitch loudly, but I'm in Cleveland when Tyler springs this on me, and since I don't want to get stranded there, I pretty much have to go along.

It's apparent immediately that he's stopping to stock up on pot before he gets back home, and what's supposed to be an overnight stop, turns into a day and a half as Tyler hangs with his old high school friend. I cool my heels and stare at the map and try not to tear down the walls in frustration.

It's not like I don't already have a lot on my mind without all this delay to deal with, too. I have no idea what I'm going to say to Bella when I finally find her, _if_ she's really there. This is madness and there's nothing less at stake than my entire future happiness with the woman I now realize I might be in love with.

Tyler doesn't get why I'm so "uptight". I want to rip his stupid, stoned face off.

Friend Number Two lives in Denver. It means we have to take Interstate 80 instead of Interstate 90 and it's a little out of the way, but at least we're still heading west. But like Louisville, it's not an overnight stop. We're there two fucking days before I manage to convince Tyler that I really do need to get to Seattle before the year ends.

After that, I push us hard. We're to Seattle in two very long days, but we're tired, hungry and dirty. I don't even give a shit. I make Tyler drop me off in the middle of downtown and I've never been so grateful to see the last of someone as I am of him.

Seattle is kind of a nightmare. It's a nice enough city, but I just want to get out of it and to Forks, which is no easy feat without a car. I check in at the bus station and I'm told it's possible, but arduous, starting with taking the Bainbridge Island ferry early the next morning. I catch a little sleep on a bench in the ferry terminal and a little more on the ride itself.

On the other side, I ask around to find the first bus of many I have to take to get to Forks. I ask a truck driver who's just climbing behind the wheel of an empty logging truck, since he looks like he would know what's what. Finally, I get my first really lucky break. He's going past Forks and he says he'll be grateful for the company for the long drive.

I thank my lucky stars and pray he's not a serial killer. He's not. His name is Steve and he's really happy to have someone to talk to. I'm too exhausted and wired to contribute much to the conversation, but he doesn't seem to care. He yammers away about his kids, who live with his ex-wife in Tacoma, and about how many times a month he makes this exact same drive. He asks me why I'm going to Forks, of all places, and when I tell him it's for a girl, he just smiles and nods like that explains everything.

We skirt the Juan de Fuca Strait on our right for miles and miles. The water is flat and gray-silver, bleeding seamlessly into blue mist of the distant shore of British Columbia and the overcast sky above. It's cool and calm and oddly reminds me of the Whistler Bella showed me that night at the Frick, the one that reminded me so much of her. Suddenly it feels right that she's here in this place. The air and the light seem to suit her. I don't have any solid proof that she came back here when she left New York, but now I feel it in my bones that she did. She's here, close to me.

As the hours slip by and Highway 101 curves around the edge of the Olympic National Forest, the scenery around us changes. The forest is the darkest wet green I've ever seen. It's overcast, but for the first time, I don't mind the lack of sun and light. This diffuse, cool light feels right for this dark, primeval forest around me. As dense as the trees are all around us, there's still some sense of space and peace. My head might be a mess and there's still a knot of anxiety in my chest that's been there for weeks, but I feel like I can breathe here. The air is clean and smells like pine. I bet she loves the cool silence of this place.

After an endless drive down a shadowy two-lane highway with unrelieved wet woods on either side of us, signs of civilization begin to reappear—the odd gas station or remote woodframe house. Finally, Steve pulls his rig to the shoulder of the road on a stretch that doesn't look a bit different to me than any other stretch of woods we've driven past so far.

"Here we are," he says brightly.

"Here we are, what?"

"Your stop," he says. The road on your map. It's right over there."

I look to where Steve is pointing and then I see it, a break in the trees that I would have mistaken for someone's driveway, if I noticed it at all. To the right, half-concealed by a dense pine tree, is a street sign. It says Carter Road, the address of the late Chief Charles Swan.

My pulse starts to pound and suddenly I'm sweating. I thank Steve for the ride and climb down out of the cab. He throws the rig into drive and rumbles away. Soon, it's just me on the side of the silent road in the fading light of the day.

I take a deep breath and start down Carter Road. There's one house right at the top of the road, not hers. Then it's just ragged grass and scattered trees for a hundred yards or more. Then, ahead on the left, I see a small white two-story wood-frame house. It's spare and simple, with a huge elm tree in the side yard, arcing over the roof. It's the only other house down here and as I get closer and see the number painted on the mailbox by the road, it's confirmed.

Bella's house.

If she's here. Jesus Christ, let her be here.

Once I reach the yard and walk up the narrow cracked concrete walkway, I stop and just think for a second. I've been so intent on getting here that it only now occurs to me that I probably look like shit. I've been in these clothes for three days without a shower or a shave. I've barely slept, and not just on this trip. I've barely slept since that last time I saw her in New York.

I wipe my palms on my thighs, but it doesn't help. I'm so freaking nervous and I have no idea what I'm going to say. I've had weeks to think it through. Days spent staring at the country roll by the window to craft the perfect words and now that I'm here, I'm at a complete loss.

I'm standing there trying to think of what I'll say after I knock on the door when it startles me and opens.

And there she is.

Wrapped up in a giant cream wool sweater and jeans, rag socks on her feet, her long hair pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. She looks just the same, just simpler, fresher. No makeup, no manicure, no diamonds in her ears or on her hand, no heels, no dress. Just Bella. Stripped down this way, she looks younger, almost like she did when I first met her four years ago.

She glances up just as she steps out on the porch and freezes in her tracks. Her eyes meet mine and I want to swallow, but I can't. She says nothing. She doesn't even look like she's breathing. I still don't know what to say, but I have to start somewhere.

"Hi."

She blinks and stares. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and then I finally hear her voice again.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

This is not going to be easy.


End file.
